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Lae^arale   Donation 


ANDRE: 


A  TRAGEDY   IN   FIVE   ACTS. 


Br 


W.   W.   LORD. 

/I 


NEW  YORK : 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  311  &  379  BROADWAY, 

1856. 


•      »        • 


EntebiS),  rfcftoMiiiVto'Adt  of  Obrfg^e^,*!!!  fhe'year  1866,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York* 


i^^m  \^^\^      ^c^r\<^A\cy\^ 


John  F.  Tkow, 

Printer,  Stereotyper  and  Electrotyper^ 
377  &  379  Broadway,  N.  Y. 


PEEF  ACE. 


The  Author  is  aware  that  with  many  whose  eyes  fall  upon 
the  title  of  this  book,  "  the  attempt  and  not  the  deed  con- 
founds" him.  But  the  consciousness  that  to  whatever 
faculty  for  such  an  undertaking  he  may  possess,  he  has 
brought  a  deep  interest  in  the  subject,  dating  back  even  to 
his  boyhood,  gives  him  confidence  to  hope  that  he  may  find 
readers ;  and  amongst  them,-  some  who  will  be  attracted 
rather  than  repelled  by  an  attempt  to  contribute  something 
to  our  legitimate  American  and  National  literature. 

The  diflSculty  of  poetic  representation,  in  regard  to  the 
most  moving  and  tragical  event  in  our  National  history, 
lies  mainly  in  adapting  modern  and  natural  language  to 
the  necessities  of  verse,  and  to  preconceived  notions  of 
tragic  style.  It  is  believed,  however,  that  there  is  no 
essential  connection  between  obsolete  forms  or  terminations 
of  words,  and  impassioned  sentiment,  and  even  harmonious 
expression.  Nor  do  either  rhyme  or  reason  forbid  that 
dramatic  verse  should  now  approach  as  near  to  our  spoken 
language,  as  it  did  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth  to  a  now  obso- 
lete but  then  familiar  diction. 

He  has,  in  all  material  points,  preserved  a  strict  fidelity 
to  history,  in  the  province  of  history,  and  in  that  of  inven- 


M23992 


4  PKEFACE. 

tion  a  strict  consistency  with  it.  Some  poetic  freedom  has 
been  used  with  respect  to  two  of  the  minor  incidents  of  the 
history.  The  attempt  of  Champe  to  abduct  Arnold  from 
New  York  has  been  placed  before,  instead  of  after,  the  death 
of  Andr6  :  and  Arnold  has  been  made  to  land  with  the 
British  Commissioners,  who  came  to  treat  with  the  Ameri- 
cans in  behalf  of  Andr6.  A  letter  from  him  was,  in  fact, 
read  at  the  meeting,  and  excited  the  indignation,  which, 
in  the  Drama,  is  attributed  to  his  presence. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that  the  friendship  of 
Andr6  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  and  its  bearing  upon  the  destiny 
both  of  Arnold  and  of  Andre,  by  making  communication 
with  the  enemy  easy  to  the  former,  and  causing  the  latter 
to  be  chosen  as  the  agent  in  the  affair,  are  historic  facts. 

The  few  directions  introduced  into  the  action  for  com- 
pleteness of  effect,  are  to  be  considered  as  descriptive.  The 
only  stage  on  which  the  Author  contemplates  the  repre- 
sentation of  his  drama  is  the  mind  of  the  reader. 


Eastridge,  Sept.  1856. 


|m0KS  ^t^xmM. 


Arnold, — Major-General  in  the  American  Army. 

Andre, — Major,  and  Adjutant  General  in  the  British  Army. 

I^Tanlcs   ) 

T^    •  7/  f  The  Aids  of  Arnold. 

Gen.  Green,  \ 

Col.  Jameson,         >  American  Officers. 

Major  Talhnadge,  ) 

Ge7i.  Rohertson. — A  British  Officer. 

CoL  Robinson. — An  American  Royalist, 

JSmith. — An  American  Gentleman,  and  a  friend  of  Arnold. 

Paulding. 
Williams. 
Van  Wert. 

Mrs.  Arnold, 
A  Chaplain, 
Women. 
Soldiers. 
Countrymen. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/andrtragedyinfOOIordrich 


ANDRE 


ACT  I.        .;      .  ^ 

SCENE    I. 

The  Landing  at    West  Point, — A  boat  lying  near, — A 
soldier  on  guard, — Tallmadge,  Franks  and  Vakick. 

Franks. 
Sunset  !  it  will  be  dark  before  we  leave  : 
The  General  forgets  that  you  are  here. 

Tallmadge. 
And  here  at  his  request ;  and  for  a  purpose 
He  has  not  yet  explained  :  but  let  us  hope 
The  evening  gun  reminds  him  to  descend 
From  his  bleak  perch  above  there ;  where,  you  say, 
He  overlooks  the  region  like  an  eagle. 


8  ANDRE. 


Franks. 
We  left  him  standing  on  Bald  Kock,  that  looks 
Quite  o'er  the  Dunderberg  ;*  and  which,  like  most 
Who  reach  its  foot,  you  did  not  care  to  cHmb. 

Varick. 
Often,  of  late,  he  stands  there  until  dark. 

Tallmadge. 
What  takqs  Jiim  there  ? 

..  *  .-        ,'  '   .«  Varick. 

Perhaps  he  plans  new  works. 

Franks. 
He  cHmbs  there  like  a  prisoner  to  his  window  ; 
For  to  a  spirit  eager  and  bold  as  his, 
A  garrison  is  a  prison. 

Varick. 

Why  he  asked 
For  a  command  like  this,  I  cannot  guess. 
His  wounds  are  a  pretence,  as  those  should  know 
Who  know  the  man. 

Tallmadge. 
But  many  deeper  wounds. 
Not  got  so  nobly,  and  that  take  from  these 


ANDRE. 


The  honor  and  the  pain,  have  struck  his  heart  ; 
The  sentence  of  the  Council  last  and  deepest. 

Franks. 
Since  Pilate's,  'twas  the  most  unjust,  the  pride 
And  very  insolence  of  armed  injustice  ; 
The  conscience,  the  shame  rather,  of  the  court 
Could  not,  upon  the  evidence,  sustain 
The  charge  of  peculation,  nor  their  envy 
Acquit  the  accused  with  honor. 

Tallmadge. 

It  is  strange 
That  charges  of  this  kind  should  have  pursued. 
Through  all  his  life,  a  man,  who,  if  not  great, 
Is  what  he  is,  despite  them. 

Franks. 

Is  it  strange 
That  fear  of  his  renown,  so  early  gained. 
Should,  early,  make  the  jealous,  deedless  crowd 
Of  new-made  generals  and  their  friends,  who  saw 
How  far  the  soldier  stood  above  their  reach. 
Impeach  the  man  ? — and  they  are  well  aware 
That  even  false  and  trivial  charges  sow 
Doubt  and  suspicion  in  the  public  mind. 
But  it  is  strange,  if  you  who  are  his  friend — 


10  ANDRE. 

Tallmadge. 
If  not  his  friend,  I  am  at  least  the  author 
Of  my  own  doubts  ;  and  what  I  see  of  him, 
In  his  new  station,  does  not  make  them  less. 
But  when  some  damning  fact  has  seemed  to  fix 
My  wavering  mind,  then  all  his  wrongs  and  merits. 
His  greatness  and  his  daring  come  before  it  ; 
And  I  must  still  respect  him  :  and  though  all 
They  say  or  hint  of  him  were  true — we  know 
That  the  same  man  who  fleeces  his  poor  soldiers. 
And  makes  the  very  beasts  that  serve  us  feel 
His  usury,  is  capable  of  deeds 
As  kind  as  just,  and  which  might  almost  strike 
Those  charges  dumb. 

Franks. 

But  his  accusers — never  ! 
They  know  him ;  and  they  know  that  for  their  end, 
His  ultimate  ruin,  they  can  safely  trust 
A  soldier's  temper,  and  a  poor  man's  pride. 
And  wronged  one's  rashness. 

Tallmadge. 

You  have  felt,  I  hear. 
His  soldier's  temper. 


ANDRE.  11 


Franks. 

And  his  soldier's  heart 
And  generous  nature.     You,  perhaps,  have  heard 
That  on  his  field  of  glory,  Saratoga, 
For  some  supposed  remissness,  in  the  heat 
Of  the  excited  hour,  he  struck  a  man 
Whom  admiration,  and  not  fear,  restrained 
From  taking  vengeance  :  from  that  hour,  he  still 
Has  kept  me  with  him,  honored,  and  advanced  me. 

Tallmadge. 
I  doubt  you  not :  for  stronger  oft  than  fear 
Is  the  strange  spell  the  brave  cast  on  the  brave  ; 
And  young  and  inexperienced  awe  of  men 
Kenowned  in  action,  is  a  stronger  spell. 
That  of  each  reckless  and  successful  soldier 
Can  make  a  hero. 

Franks. 
Yet  I  think  I  see. 
Without  enchantment,  that  whatever  seems 
Mysterious  in  this  life,  is  the  result 
Of  crimination,  not  the  proof  of  crime  ; 
And  even  that  this  strangest  thing  of  all, 
In  such  a  man,  his  moody  avarice, 
But  marks  the  ea^er  effort  to  attain 


12  ANDRE. 


That  personal  independence  dear  to  one 

Whose  pride  has  suffered,  and  who  strives  to  keep 

His  soul  erect  before  his  enemies. 

Enter-  Arnold. — \The  soldier  presents  arms, 

Arnold. 
I  recollect  you  ;  at  Quebec  you  marched 
Among  the  stormers  on  my  left,  and  once, 
When  my  foot  slipped  upon  the  broken  ice, 
You  saved  me  from  the  fall. 

Soldier. 

Yes,  General. 

Arnold. 
I  thank  you  for  it  now.     I  know  each  face 
That  I  saw  with  me  in  the  Wilderness  ; 
I  would  that  those  I  serve  remembered  me 
But  half  so  well. 

{To  Tallmadge,) 
We  cross  the  river  late. 
And  His  unfortunate  ;  because  I  purposed 
Ere  you  returned  to  Northcastle,  to  meet 
And  speak  at  leisure  with  you  on  the  subject 
Of  a  great  enterprise,  designed  to  end 
The  public  troubles  :  but  the  open  air 
Chills  confidence  and  dissipates  attention. 
You  understand  me. 


ANDRE.  13 


Tallmadge  (aside). 

Yes,  your  last  assertion. 

Arnold. 
I'll  meet  you  all  to-morrow — you  are  all 
Each  other's  friends,  and  mine. 

Varick  (loohing  significantly  at  Tallmadge). 
Each  other's — yes. 

Franks. 
You  do  us  justice,  General ;  we  are. 

Arnold. 
When  on  the  heights,  did  you  observe  a  ship 
Making  her  way  up  from  below  ? 

Franks. 

We  did ; 
And  wondered  what  could  be  her  purpose  here. 

Varick. 
It  is  the  same  that,  so  mysteriously. 
Came  up  the  river,  and  dropped  down  again — 
The  Yulture. 

Tallmadge. 
A  true  Vulture  !  but  what  scent 
Of  prey  or  coming  battle,  from  the  heart 
2* 


14  ANDRE. 


Of  the  war-region,  to  this  distant  part 
Attracts  this  grim  ill-omened  bird  of  war  ? 

Arnold. 
Ill-omened,  yes — in  that  you  may  be  right  : 
It  has  been  deemed,  I  think,  a  bird  of  omen. 

[Arnold  and  the  officers  enter  the  hoot. 


SCENE    II. 

The  deck  of  the  Vulture^  a  British  Man-of-  War,  off  Tel- 
ler''s  Point. — The  forts  at  Verplanclc's  and  Stony 
Points,  and  the  heights  at  West  Point  in  sight. 

Enter  Kobinson  and  Andre. 

Andre. 
They  little  dream,  who  see,  from  these  redoubts, 
Our  slender  armament,  what  danger  lurks 
Behind  the  slight  appearance. 

Kobinson. 

Kather  say 
Behind  their  walls  themselves,  as  far  within 
Eedoubt  and  rampart,  as  are  we  beyond 
Their  cannon's  range.   But  do  you  think  that  Arnold 
Intends  to  come  on  board  ? 


ANDRE.  15 


Andre. 

Intends  !  why  doubt  it  ? 

KOBINSON. 

I  know  the  man  ; — as  cautious  in  intrigue^ 
As  rash  in  conflict.     I  suspect  he  means 
That  you  shall  go  on  shore,  and  take  the  hazard, 
Which  else  might  fall  to  him. 

Andre. 

I  hold  the  prize 
Well  worth  the  risk.     We  shall  obtain  a  fort 
Which  art  and  nature  join  their  hands  to  make 
Impregnable  ;  the  key  of  all  the  roads, 
Northward,  and  crossing  from  the  east  and  west. 
Which  this  war  travels  ;  and  to  gain  which  noWy 
When  Washington  at  Kingsbridge,  and  De  Ternay 
At  Newport,  threaten  us  by  land  and  sea. 
Is  more  important,  as  it  would  prevent 
The  junction  of  the  rebels  with  the  French, 
And  end,  we  hope,  the  conflict.     This,  concede. 
Offers  a  prospect  not  to  be  endangered 
By  any  scruples  of  the  when  and  where 
Of  the  transaction  : — I  will  go  on  shore. 

Kobinson. 
With  my  consent  you  shall  not.     In  this  game 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  would  not  risk  his  agent ; 


16  ANDRE. 


Although  the  move^  I  grant,  could  it  be  made, 

Would  take  him  out  of  check,  and  out  of  fear 

Of  being  soon  checkmated  in  New  York. 

And  you  I  know  he  would  not,  if  he  might 

In  conscience,  prompt  to  such  a  part.     As  soldiers, 

Danger  is  our  employment ;  and  to  hazard 

Our  lives  and  freedom  for  the  King,  a  duty  ; 

But  not  our  part,  where  soldiers  should  be  cowards, 

To  serve  his  cause — not  ours,  I  mean,  to  dare 

The  dangers  of  conspiracy,  and  risk, 

It  may  be,  honor. 

Andre. 
There  is  no  such  danger 
In  this  conspiracy,  as  you  misname  it. 
I  do  the  thing  for  honor's  sake  ;  and  Arnold 
Is  unsuspected,  and  still  has  the  power 
Of  his  high  rank  and  station,  to  assist 
The  hardihood  and  subtlety  of  purpose 
That  you  concede  to  him. 

EOBINSON. 

And  hate  in  him, 
As  in  the  devil  I  do  ! 

Andre. 

Still  hate  them  there — 
But  not  in  him  in  whom  they  will  give  back 


ANDRE.  "17 


A  continent  to  the  King,  or  I  shall  doubt 
Your  loyalty  ;  though  I  so  much  admired 
Its  firmness,  and  the  strength  of  that  devotion 
To  duty  and  allegiance,  that  could  lead  you 
To  leave  your  fair  domain,  and  the  misguided 
But  gallant  men  who  call  you  countryman. 
For  my  part,  I  am  tempted  to  suspect 
That  had  T  first  seen  light  upon  this  side 
Of  the  broad  stream  which  king  has  never  passed, 
I,  too,  might  be  a  traitor  :  'tis  the  clime, 
The  unsubdued  wild  region  of  their  birth. 
That  makes  them  rebels  ;  not  to  law  disloyal. 
But  to  the  laws  that  rule  an  older  world. 

KOBINSON. 

They  were  free-bom,  and  need  not  be  more  free 
Than  were  their  fathers. 

Andre. 

Birthright  is  not  freedom  ; 
Free  senses  make  free  souls — and  dauntless  hearts. 
And  here  no  court  with  enervating  splendor 
Shines  like  a  sun  upon  the  dazzled  land  : 
No  castled  heights  their  feudal  shadow  cast 
On  the  tired  reaper's  brows,  and  fields  of  grain  ; 
No  legendary  towers,  that  seem  as  old 
As  their  foundation,  from  these  rocks  look  down 


18  ANDRE. 


Oa  the  free  village,  and  the  humble  homes 

And  nurseries  of  men  :  the  people  see 

No  pageantry  to  awe,  know  no  prescription. 

Meet  no  suggestions  of  antiquity 

To  tame  their  native  courage  to  the  hand, 

Far  reached,  and  but  too  short,  to  quell  rebellion, 

Inspired  by  every  sight  and  sound  in  nature, — 

And  nature  its  invincible  ally. 

KOBINSON. 

I  sometimes  have  had  thoughts  like  these — but  here, 
Near  my  own  house,  and  what  should  be  my  home, 
Now  the  head-quarters  of  this  scheming  Arnold, 
My  sympathies  are  all  with  loyal  men. 

[They  enter  the  cabin. 


SOEISrE   III. 

The  east  side  of  the  river, — A  room  in  Egbinson's  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Arnold. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

Each  day  he  comes  back  later,  yet  too  soon. 
My  love  is  checked,  my  heart  is  in  its  springs. 
And  will  not  flow  :  he  chills  and  awes  it  back 
With  the  dark  shadow  of  unspoken  thoughts, 


ANDRE.  19 


Or  terrifies  me  with  unwelcome  bursts 

Of  momentary  transport,  that  seem  madness. 

0,  'twas  unlocked  for  !  yet  'tis  woman's  fate, 

So  ignorant  of  itself  till  fixed,  and  then 

So  bound  to  its  unhappiness  by  chains 

'Gainst  which  the  almost  bursting  heart  beats  softly, 

Lest  it  should  break  them,  while  itself  is  breaking  ! 

Enter  Arnold. 

Arnold. 
I  was  in  search  of  you,  and  might  suppose 
You  sought  to  avoid  me. 

[He  regards  her  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

Can  it  be  the  same  ? 
How  changed  !     I  know  the  heat  about  my  heart 
Is  withering  and  not  warming  ;  still  you  are 
My  bosom  friend,  my  wife,  and  you  should  know 
Our  common  fortune,  be  it  good  or  evil ; 
And  I  should  have  at  least  one  friend  with  whom 
A  secret  would  be  safe. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

Have  you  not  many  ? 

Arnold. 
0,  yes,  as  close,  as  faithful,  and  discreet  ones 
As  ever  lied  by  silence,  could  I  make 


20  ANDRE. 


My  secret  theirs^ — if  not,  my  dearest  friend. 
Who  thinks  I  hold  him  dearest,  would  reveal  it 
With  sleepless  haste,  and  smile  to  see  the  knife 
Drink  my  full  heart  out,  drop  by  drop. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

What  knife  ? 
What  do  you  mean  ?  and  these  dark  hints  that  fall, 
Since  we  came  hither,  darker  and  more  frequent 
On  my  pained  ear — what  ill  do  they  foreshadow  ? 

Arnold. 
Ill  to  my  enemies  !     The  very  shape 
And  substance  of  the  fear  w^hich  haunts  their  eyes ; 
Defeat  and  shame,  felt  both  in  my  success 
And  their  own  ruin  !     I  shall  live  to  see 
That  haughty  Congress,  and  that  politic 
And  truckling  Council,  who  to  please  a  mob 
Of  clamorous  and  vulture-like  civilians, 
Disgraced  a  fellow- soldier,  and  themselves, 
Sue  for  an  amnesty,  beg  life  and  fortune, 
At  a  tribunal  they  abhor  like  hell ! 
And  my  bold  Countrymen,  who,  in  their  wrongs, 
Find  irresistible  and  lawful  power 
To  right  them  by  whatever  means,  shall  find 
That  in  the  strength  which  injuries  can  give. 
An  injured  man  is  stronger  than  a  people. 


ANDRE.  21 


Mrs.  Arnold. 
Did  I  not  know  you — had  I  not  before 
Heard  words  as  frantic,  I  might  think — 

Arnold. 

Well,  what  ? 
Speak  freely. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
That  a  foreign  influence 
Fed  these  resentments,  and  to  some  dark  end 
Directed  them.     0,  bear  with  me  !     Our  child 
Makes  me  more  sensitive  to  all  that  moves 
And  agitates  his  father.     What  you  are, 
It  seems  each  moment  to  my  anxious  heart, 
He  is  to  be — you  do  not  listen — 

Arnold. 

—Yes, 
My  son,  you  fear,  is  like  me — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

This  once,  hear  me  ! 
'Tis  the  world's  thought,  that  I  became  your  wife 
Because  your  rank,  and  splendid  way  of  life, 
And  consequence  as  governor  of  the  city 
Which  was  my  birthplace  and  my  world,  allured  me. 


22  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 
And  you'd  not  have  me  think  so  ?    Well — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

0,  that 

Was  my  first  grief,  to  find  that  you  could  think 

My  love  such  prostitution,  and  accept  it  ! 

I  saw  in  you  a  brave,  deserving  soldier, 

Wronged  by  his  country,  who  with  greater  zeal 

Devoted  him,  and  with  stern  passion  wooed 

Her  cold  unfavoring  eye  ;  and  for  the  hopes 

By  its  unkindly  frost  cut  off  and  blighted, 

Still  won  fresh  wreaths  from  her  reluctant  hand. 

And  now  to  see  you,  when,  with  one  more  efibrt, 

To  the  best  champion  she  could  refuse 

Her  heart  no  longer,  falter  and  give  ear 

To  her  insidious  enemies  and  your  own. 

Might  almost  tempt  me  to  forswear  the  vow 

That  did  not  only  bind  me  to  the  man, 

But  wed  me  to  his  honor. 

Arnold. 

Your  conjectures — 
Speak  out — what  are  they  ? 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

I  have  felt  a  doubt 
Whether  your  frequent  intercourse  with  Andre, 


ANDRE.  23 


Begun  through  me^  did  not  conceal  some  project 
You  would,  but  that  you  dared  not,  let  me  know. 

Arnold. 
Then  learn  the  secret  now  ;  by  chance  already 
You  know  too  much  to  know  so  little. — I, 
It  may  be,  am  the  first,  who  found  a  wife's 
Protracted  friendship  for  a  former  lover 
Pleasant  or  profiting — but  so  it  is  : — 
His  fortunes  are  bound  up  with  mine;  through  him 
I  gain — what  else  no  matter — my  revenge  : 
Through  me  he  will  get  thanks,  and  fame  ; — a  sen- 
tence 
In  the  despatches,  and  a  regiment. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
What  riddle  's  this  ?     I  see  its  darker  meaning  ; 
But  how  can  you"  and  Andre  act  together  ? 

Arnold. 
He  is  to  conquer  me,  and  by  assault 
Take  yonder  fortress — aye  !  you  wonder, — there. 
Above  it,  float  the  continental  colors  ; 
And  yet  it  is  the  King's — and  I  from  Congress 
Hold  my  commission,  but  'tis  for  the  King. 
You  smile — you  think  me  jesting. — 


24  ANDRE. 


Mrs.  Arnold. 

Did  I  smile  ? 
'Twas  in  despair  then. 

Arnold. 

In  despair  of  what  ? 
The  plot  is  sure — fate  could  not  make  it  stronger. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
I  meant  not  in  despair  of  your  success^ 
But  in  despair  of  you,  and  of  myself : — 
Yet  you  will  fail. 

Arnold. 
Had  you  the  smallest  knowledge 
Of  military  matters — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

You  will  fail — 
I  speak  from  higher  knowledge — call  it  faith, 
Yes,  faith  in  the  just  cause  you  would  betray, 
And  in  the  unconquered  faith  and  fortitude 
Of  a  free  people.     You  may  yield  this  fort, 
Though  I  forebode  disaster  to  the  plot ; — 
But  who  can  to  the  King  deliver  up 
That  best  stronghold  of  liberty,  the  heart 
Of  a  great  people,  garrisoned  against  him 


ANDRE.  25 


By  the  twin  passions,  hope  and  stronger  fear, 
And  his  injustice  ?     Hear  me,  and  be  warned  ! 
This  moment  may  be  free  from  destiny, — 
The  next,  and  it  will  seize,  stern,  unrelenting, 
On  all  your  after  hfe  ;  and  with  success, 
As  surely  as  defeat,  the  blighted  name 
Of  him  who  sold  his  countrymen,  will  be 
Its  bearer's  infamy,  and  to  no  child 
Even  by  your  children  shall  be  given  ! 

Arnold. 

Woman  ! — 

But  I  will  not  be  moved  ; — though  well  I  might, 

ril  not  be  angered.     My  rash  confidence 

Gave  you  the  privilege  to  misuse  it :  Madam, 

Your  taught  and  tragic  eloquence  was  inspired 

By  the  dull  parrots  of  dead  books  and  men. 

That  prate  in  Congress.     Men  of  action  know 

A  different  creed  :  one  written,  not  in  words. 

But  deeds  ;  and  by  the  cannon's  mouth  confessed 

And  ascertained,  at  last.     And,  to  predict 

Whether  my  name  or  that  of  Washington, 

Is  destined  to  be  pilloried  in  phrases 

Like  renegade  and  traitor,  is  to  know 

Whether  his  treason  to  the  King  succeed. 

Or  mine  to  him,  if  to  betray  a  traitor. 

And  one  in  arms  against  his  king  be  treason. 


26  ANDRE. 


Mrs.  Arnold. 
0,  flatter  not  yourself  with  the  injustice 
Of  partial  times  or  men  :  should  his  star  set, 
Yours  would  not  rise  above  it  :  even  they 
Who  should  call  him  a  traitor,  would  think  you 
A  double  traitor  ;  and  the  ill-bought  praise 
Of  a  whole  age,  or  world,  could  it  be  yours. 
Would  be  but  fuel  for  the  quenchless  flame 
Of  a  just  human  instinct,  in  the  end 
Sure  to  break  forth  and  blacken  you  with  shame. 

Arnold. 
Enough  !    I'd  hear  no  more  ;  you  have  my  secret  ; 
Think  it  your  life.     I  cannot  think  you  will, 
And  yet  I  half  suspect  you  would,  betray  me. 

[Fxit 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
I  should  betray  you  !     0  !  let  not  that  woman 
Think  to  be  surely  blest  who  joins  her  fate 
And  makes  her  life  one  with  another  being. 
None  can  be  safe  ;  let  her  elect  the  man 
Whose  office  is  a  virtue,  or  whose  bread 
Is  piety,  and  she  shall  find  in  him 
Who  sits  in  ermine  a  most  spotted  felon, 
An  atheist  in  him  who  kneels  in  lawn. 
Or  let  her  choose,  my  heart  !  my  heart !  that  man 


ANDRE.  27 


Of  men — a  soldier,  a  time-tried  and  scarred 
And  laurelled  soldier,  she  shall  find  a  traitor  ! 
And  all  the  wretchedness  and  shame  of  both 
The  child  inherits — yes,  my  child — 0,  wo  ! 

[Exit 


SCENE  IV. 

An  apartment  in  JRoblnson'^s  house. — Arnold, Tallmadge, 
Franks  and  Varick. 

Arnold. 
And  that  was  why  Td  not  command  the  left  ? 
The  southern  army  was  not  offered  me  ! 
Well  for  the  country  and  the  coward,  Gates, 
Had  I  obtained  it — but  in  that  they  lie  ; 
This  is  the  place  I  asked  for. 

Tallmadge. 

It  is  plain 
They  do  not  understand  your  motives,  nor, 
Permit  me  to  be  frank  with  you,  do  we. 

Arnold. 
Once  know  my  wrongs,  and  you  know  me  ;  for  I 
Am  all  made  up  of  them  ;  they  are  my  senses. 
Through  which  I  feel,  and  hear,  and  see  all  objects. 
They  have  possession  of  my  brain,  and  day 


28  ANDRE. 


And  night  they  work  there,  think  and  act  for  me  ; 

And  from  my  heart  they  run  like  a  disease 

Through  all  my  blood.     All  that  I  loved  I  hate. 

There  is  a  mockery  in  the  mere  respect 

Paid  to  my  rank  ;  the  soldier's  prompt  salute, 

The  deference  of  subalterns,  seem  now 

A  sarcasm  or  a  favor.     The  wild  stir 

Of  field  and  camp,  which  pleased  me  once,  is  dull, 

And  tiresome  as^  a  town  parade  ;  the  shock 

And  boom  of  the  near  gun,  the  fife  and  drum 

And  bugle  call — are  painful  to  my  ears 

As  to  a  branded  coward's  :  and  my  heart 

Turns  even  from  old  friends  ;  but,  in  one  beat 

Of  its  most  feeble  pulse,  it  has  not  yet 

Turned  from  old  enemies — not  one  ! 

Franks. 

It  might 

Dismiss  them  freely,  for  their  enmity 

Is  better  friendship,  in  the  end,  than  ours. 

Arnold. 
What  ?—I  am  dull. 

Franks. 
The  sense  of  gratitude, 
Against  injustice  slowly  rises  up. 
And,  irrepressibly  reacting,  bears 


ANDRE.  29 


The  injured,  in  the  people's  mind,  above 
The  injurer :  if  not  at  once — ^hereafter. 

Arnold. 
Hereafter — yes,  could  I  be  satisfied 
With  that  hereafter  ;  which  as  yet  is  not, 
And,  therefore,  nothing  ;  and  in  which  the  present 
Will  have  become  the  past,  and,  therefore,  nothing  ! 
It  might  be  something,  could  my  ashes  hear 
My  vindication,  or  could  marble  feel 
The  flattery  of  sculpture  ;  or  the  voice 
And  hand  of  retribution  reach  my  dead 
And  buried  enemies,  lying  undisturbed, 
Invincible  and  silent  in  their  graves. 

Tallmadgb. 
And  yet  this  nothing  is  the  test  of  fame, 
Namer  of  men,  and  ordeal  of  glory  ; 
And  even  of  the  glory  gained  by  war. 
And  the  true  great,  and  true  heroic  minds 
Most  prize  posthumous  honors ;  and  have  died 
Poor  and  in  miser}^,  that  their  fame  might  live 
In  human  memory,  and  their  very  name. 
And  dust,  be  more  revered  than  living  men. 

Arnold. 
Let  such  as  find  the  motive,  waste  the  brain 
And  drain  the  vital  blood,  to  have  their  relics 
3 


30  ANDRE. 


Embalmed  and  honored.     'Tis  not  my  ambition 
To  be  a  worshipped  mummy,  but  a  man 
Kespected  amongst  men  :  and  this  has  been, 
Since  the  rash  spirit  of  my  boyhood  left  me, 
My  day  and  night  endeavor,  my  sole  aim. 
But  from  that  hour  when  to  New  Haven  came 
The  news  of  Lexington,  and  men,  unmanned 
And  nerveless,  saw  the  first  red  drops  of  war  ; 
And  I,  while  orators  stood  dumb,  turned  back 
The  trembling  crowd  that  fled  before  the  shadow 
Of  the  dark  war-cloud  their  ow^n  breath  had  raised, 
And  bade  them  stand,  and  arm,  and^  when  aroused, 
Offered  to  lead  them  forth  to  instant  action. 
Only  to  hear  the  authorities  who  held 
The  keys  of  the  arsenal  refuse  me  arms — 
From  that  first  check  to  this  late  reprimand 
My  whole  career  has  been  a  studied  series 
Of  checks  and  insults. 

Tallmadge. 

To  resist  so  long 
An  adverse  influence,  and  advance  against  it, 
Gives  proof  of  strength,  which  is  itself  the  pledge 
Of  ultimate  success. 


ANDRE.  31 


Arnold. 

If  I  resist. 
It  is  but  as  a  swimmer  in  a  stream, 
Who  strikes  and  gasps  for  life,  and  does  not  think 
How  strong  he  is,  but  only  in  what  danger. 

Tallmadge. 
But  it  is  noble  to  possess  such  strength. 

Arnold. 
'Tis  well — but  its  possessor  only  feels 
The  stress,  the  struggle,  and  exhausting  effort 
That  calls  it  forth  ;  it  is  for  the  beholders 
To  see  how  noble  ;  but  the  real  actor 
In  the  great  scenes  of  life  at  which  they  wonder, 
Dares  and  confronts  their  dangers,  not  because 
'Tis  noble  thus  to  do,  but  necessary. 

Tallmadge. 
Yet  there  are  some  at  least  to  whose  stern  thinking, 
To  dare,  is  needful  when  the  cause  is  noble. 

Arnold. 
I  have  not  met,  thus  far,  with  one  of  them — 
You'll  pardon  me — if  you  be  not  that  one. 

Tallmadge. 
You  jest — but  yes,  by  Heaven !  I  am  that  one. 


32  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 
I  have  an  act  in  view  that  has,  indeed, 
The  strength  of  both  inducements  to  persuade 
To  its  performance,  had  it  not  too  much 
Of  the  alloy  of  interest — did  it  not 
Promise  too  much  and  fair,  for  men  who  act 
From  sublimated  motives. 

Franks. 

Let  us  hear  : 
We  can  best  judge  of  that. 

Arnold. 

Of  that  ril  speak 
Hereafter  ;  it  is,  first  of  all,  important 
We  understand  each  other  in  the  grounds 
Of  the  cooperation  I  propose  : 
And  here  Fm  confident  we  shall  not  differ. 
You  all  concede  that  what  with  want  of  men 
Through  short  enlistments,  a  twice  bankrupt  Con- 
gress, 
And  late  defeats,  but  for  this  French  alliance 
We  all  might  ground  our  arms,  and  fall  to  prayers 
With  our  good  general,  George — to  be — the  First, 
Who  leads  us  in  this  war  on  Greorge  the  Third. 

Franks. 
/Tis  even  so. 


ANDRE.  33 


Tallmadge. 
But  I  cannot  concede  this  : 
Not  to  be  vanquished,  is  success — 

Arnold. 

I  know — 
And  know  that  we  have,  even,  called  defeats 
Successes  ;  and  have  turned  escapes,  retreats, 
And  countermarches  into  victories, 
To  keep  the  spirit  of  the  people  up. 
But  this  you  must  concede  ; — the  threadbare  words 
For  which  we  fight  in  rags,  and  scarce  make  out 
Upon  our  tattered  banners.  Liberty 
And  Independence,  and  the  hopeful  phrases, 
Stale  as  the  war,  and  ancient  as  the  Rump, 
God  for  the  people's  rights,  and  hope  in  Heaven, 
Now  changed  to  France,  awake,  from  year  to  year, 
A  fainter  answer  in  our  hopes  and  hearts. 

Tallmadge. 
Why,  Danbury  and  Saratoga,  fields 
Won  by  yourself,  might  keep  our  courage  up. 

Arnold. 
That  matters  not  ;  'tis  of  the  French  I'd  speak  : 
A  few  years  since  they  were  our  enemies. 


34  ANDRE. 


Franks. 
The  General  himself  acquired  the  credit 
Through  which  he  has  attained  his  present  rank 
Serving  against  them. 

Arnold. 

Can  we  be  quite  sure 
That  in  this  family  feud  it  is  discreet 
To  drive  out  friends — 

Tallmadge. 
— Friends  ? 

Arnold. 
Our  own  race,  at  least, 
And  bring  in  enemies  ?     You  know  the  fate 
Of  the  old  Britons  who  against  the  Scot 
Called  in  the  Saxon.     Our  attempt  to  gain 
The  independence  an  usurping  Congress, 
Not  the  still  loyal  people,  have  decreed. 
May  leave  us  more  dependent — may,  in  fact. 
Make  us  a  French  dependency,  than  which — 
Will  no  one  speak  the  rest  ? 

Franks. 

I'd  rather  wear 
Hereditary  chains. 


ANDRE.  35 


Tallmadge. 

I'd  rather  die  ; 
And  rather  live  dishonored,  and  the  slave 
Of  the  remotest  and  most  barbarous  race 
Acknowledged  to  be  human,  'than  to  see 
This  soil,  our  native  and  true  mother-land, 
Again  subjected  to  unnatural  England. 
The  ground,  which  so  much  filial  blood  has  drunk. 
To  tillage  would  be  barren,  and  yield  thorns : 
And  our  proud  ancestress,  who  would  usurp 
A  mother's  power  but  cares  not  for  our  love, 
Would  give  us  scornful  stripes,  too  well  deserved 
By  voluntary  bondmen. 

Arnold. 

Bravely  said ! 
But  how,  my  friend,  if  to  avoid  the  clutches 
Of  cruel  grandam  with  her  rod,  we  fly 
To  the  protection  of  the  wolf  ?     There's  danger, 
Depend  upon  it,  in  these  crafty  French. 

Tallmadge. 
Pardon  me  General,  it  is  difficult 
To  think  you  quite  in  earnest  :  hostile  France 
Would  cripple  England  by  sustaining  us, 
Not  undertake  herself  the  hopeless  task 
Of  our  subjection  ;  and  we,  un endangered. 


36  ANDRE. 


May  use  their  rivalries  to  our  advantage, — 
With  the  great  ocean  for  our  strong  ally 
Against  the  stronger  ;  and,  soon,  either  power 
Will  think  it  easier  to  subdue  the  other, 
Than  either,  us. 

[Arnold,  who  has  listened  impatiently,  ab- 
ruptly turns,  and  addresses  Franks. 

Arnold. 
You  will  find  Smith  below  ; 
He  waits  to  speak  with  me. 

[Exeunt  Tallmadge, Varick  and  Franks,  ex- 
pressing in  their  looks  surprise  and  indig- 
nation. 

No  help  from  them. 
I  threw  the  bait  too  boldly  ;  it  is  well 
That  it  was  into  swift  and  muddy  waters. 
Something  they  may  suspect,  but  not  the  truth  : 
That  is  too  strange  to  dream — above  their  daring 
But  to  conceive  of. 

{A  pause.) 
It  was  not  their  aid — 
Although  I  need  it  ;  'tis  this  solitude, 
In  which  the  uncommunicated  mind 
Loses  itself,  and  grasps  the  nearest  hand 
To  find  reality.     'Tis  old  as  treason 


A  N  D  B  E  .  37 


That  the  most  dangerous  secret,  longest  kept. 
Like  the  shy  serpent,  tired  of  her  own  coil 
And  her  dark  cavern  dropping  deadly  dews, 
Will  creep  into  the  light,  and  seek  to  bask 
In  some  approving  smile  ;  hence  the  temptation, 
The  mastering  impulse,  the  fatuity. 
That  makes  the  mind  a  traitor  to  itself. 

Enter  Smith. 

The  agent  that  would  see  me  for  the  sale 
Of  Eobinson's  estate,  must  land  to-night. 

Smith. 
I  cannot  find  the  men  for  it  ;  not  one 
Whom  I  have  sounded  likes  it  ;  'tis  a  secret, 
And  therefore  they  suspect  a  dangerous  service. 

Arnold. 
Bring  them  to  me,  and  I  will  find  a  way 
To  dissipate  their  scruples.  \^Exit  Smith. 

[He  unlocks  a  cabinet  and  takes  out  a  paper 
which  he  glances  over  while  speaking. 

— Satisfied  ? 
Why,  yes,  that  I  shall  get  no  more.     Our  straits  ! 
The  King's  munificence — a  petty  sum 
To  buy  a  country  and  its  army  : — No  ! 
3* 


38  A  N  D  K  E  . 

ril  not  be  privy  to  their  thoughts  :  the  effect 
Will  be  the  same  to  them  as  if  it  were 
The  ransom  of  an  empire,  but  I'll  take 
The  fair  construction  of  the  case,  which  makes  it 
A  compensation  for  the  loss  I  suffer 
In  my  return  to  loyalty  ;  if  they 
Have  other  thoughts,  for  my  sake,  and  their  own, 
They'll  make  the  devil  their  only  confidant. 
I  might  deceive  my  countrymen  with  show 
Of  being  taken  prisoner  ;  as,  at  first, 
I  meditated  doing.     But  the  secret 
Might  not  be  safe  ;   if  kept,  would  not  be  ven- 
geance— 
Such  vengeance  as  I  long  for  :  they  must  curse  me  ! 
But  few  and  brief  have  been  their  benedictions  ; 
Their  maledictions  shall  be  long  and  loud. 
They  have  not  called  me  yet,  with  all  the  terms 
They  hate  me  in,  a  beaten  General  ; 
And  their  commiseration  would  be  bitter. 
They  must  perceive  my  hand  and  curse  me  ;  curses 
Are  never  pleasant  to  the  ear — but  theirs 
Will  be  far  sweeter  than  would  be  their  pity. 

[Exit 


ACT  II. 

SCENE    I. 

The   river  side   at    the  Long   Clove  Mountain. — A  dark 
and  stormy  night. — Arnold  discovered  waiting. 

Arnold. 
Did  I  hear  oars  ? — the  wind. — They  are  too  late  ; 
The  night  will  hardly  cover  the  transaction 
If  they  consume  it  thus. 

{A  pause.) 

This  act  will  place  me 
Entirely  in  their  power  ;  the  deed  to  do 
Is  as  if  done  ;  the  future  as  the  past. 
I  have  swum  back  and  forth  in  the  smooth  waters^ 
And  pleased  myself  with  the  alluring  motion 
Outward,  in  view  of  the  receding  shore  ; 
The  conscious  master  of  the  interval. 
But  now  the  current  seizes  me,  and  strong 


40  ANDRE. 

Above  my  strength  to  breast  it,  bears  me  on, 

And  to  swim  forth  with  it  is  safety.     Few, 

Blind  and  irresolute  the  strokes  that  brought  me 

Across  the  narrow  line  which  separates 

The  rush  of  action  from  the  calm  of  thought  : 

And  lo  !  an  ocean,  an  eternity. 

Lies,  in  effect,  between  me  and  the  place 

Where  will  and  act  were  one.     One  chance  I  had 

To  gain  without  defection  what  I  seek, — 

One  hope, — the  offer  made  me  to  command 

The  left  wing  of  the  army.     In  that  case 

My  triumph  in  particular,  had  been 

That  of  my  enemies,  in  general  ;  now 

My  triumph  is  their  ruin. 

[He  starts  and  hastily  retires.  A  boat  lands, 
and  Andre,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  steps  on 
shore.     The  boat  immediately  leaves. 

Andre. 

No  one  here  ! 
They  told  me  he  was  waiting.     How  the  wind 
Eoars  down  this  mountain  gorge,  and  on  the  river 
Leaps,  like  a  baffled  eagle  on  some  swift 
And    powerful    serpent,    that    winds   through   his 

talons. 
A  time  so  full  of  nature's  discontent, 


ANDRE.  41 


A  night  like  this,  so  full  of  mad  disquiet^ 

And  such  a  wild  and  solitary  place, 

A  painter  or  tragedian  might  choose, 

Were  a  despairing  man  to  meet  the  devil. 

Ugh  !  'tis  an  ugly  simile  ;  the  more, 

As  I  am  here  to  play  the  tempter's  part. 

But  storm,  and  gloom,  and  mystery,  might  make 

The  undesigning  deem  themselves  abroad 

On  some  conspiracy  against  the  sleep 

Of  home-roofed  innocence  ;  and  childhood's  spell, 

With  recollected  dread  of  night,  and  shapes 

Of  haggard  fear  and  secret  crimes  that  came 

With  the  hushed,  featureless,  and  sable  hag, 

Joins  deeds  of  darkness,  still,  with  thoughts  of  guilt. 

Arnold  re-enters. 


Anderson  ! 

Gustavus  ! 

Are  you  alone  ? 
The  spirit  of  solitude. 


Arnold. 
Andre. 

Arnold. 

I  heard  you  speaking. 

Andre. 

I  spoke  to  exorcise 


42  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 

A  step  this  way, 
And  we  shall  be  more  sheltered. 

Andre. 

If  these  rockSj 
That  from  the  mass  of  darkness  their  huge  crags 
Thrust  forth  upon  the  stumbling  sight,  have  ears, 
As  for  conspirators  'tis  said  they  have. 
They'll  hardly  catch  our  secret  while  the  wind 
Deafens  their  hollow  clefts  with  his  loud  story. 
How  strange  and  wild  !    It  seems  as  if  there  should 
Be  always  night  here,  and  unceasing  noise. 
So  well  they  suit  the  fixed  and  pictured  storm 
Beheld  in  the  confused  and  broken  lines 
Of  ledge  and  precipice,  which,  themselves  at  rest. 
Disturb  and  threaten  the  unresting  eye. 

Arnold. 
Hem  ! — it  were  well  for  us  if  night  and  storm 
Might  be  prolonged  an  hour  or  so,  at  least  ; 
But  day  is  near. 

(Aside.) 

A  strange  conspirator  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ANDRE.  43 


SCENE    I  J  . 
A71  apartment  in  Robinson's  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Arnold,  with  a  lamp. 

Why  did  I  bring  this  light  ?     It  is  clear  day. 
Night  would  not  let  me  sleep,  nor  will  the  dawn 
Awake  me  from  this  dream  of  settled  horror  ! 

0  !  to  be  made  the  sole  repository 

Of  such  a  secret,  which  I  cannot  break, 

Nor  yet  can  keep.     I'll  not  be  seen.     I  seem 

To  every  eye  that  marks  me,  to  reveal  it. 

He  told  me  all,  as  if  it  eased  his  heart 

To  tell  it,  even  to  ears  ungratified. 

God  of  heaven  !     This  night  he  was  to  meet 

A  British  emissary — now  perhaps. 

Plays  with  the  fatal  sword  whose  point,  reversed. 

Will  drink  his  blood  !    Did  aught  retard  or  threaten, 

1  know  the  house  that  was  to  hide  them.     Thither 
I  might  this  moment  fly. — But  wherefore  should  I  ? 
'Tis  Andre  that  he  meets,  and  I  might  still 
Possess  some  power  with  him  !     But  to  what  end  ? 


44  ANDRE. 


He  acts  for  others.     Yet  1  cannot  stay 
And  know  that  they  together  work  the  ruin 
Of  me,  and  of  my  child.     'Twill  anger  Arnold, 
And  show  to  Andre  my  unhappiness. 
But  fear  like  mine  is  bolder  than  displeasure  ; 
And  grief  is  more  imperious  than  shame. 
I  see  him,  in  the  distance,  blindly  stumbling 
Along  the  desperate  edge  of  the  abyss  : — 
Now,  madly  down  the  dizzy  precipice 
I  see  him  plunge,  and  'tis  involuntary 
To  stretch  the  hand,  although  it  cannot  save  him. 

[Exit 


SCENE    III. 

Smith's  house. — A  gloomy  and  ill-lighted  apartment. — 
Arnold  and  Andre  discovered  sitting  at  a  table  strewed 
with  papers. 

Andre. 
I  cannot  but  be  vexed  that  day  surprised  us ; 
And  though  I  felt  secure,  I  could  not  feel 
At  ease  within  your  outposts. 

Arnold. 

'Twill,  at  least, 
Give  us  more  leisure  to  mature  our  plan. 
[He  places  his  finger  on  a  map. 


ANDRE.  45 


You  will  land  here  ;  and,  following  this  ridge^ 
You  gain  our  rear  ;  and  here  you  climb  the  moun- 
tain. 
From  whose  unguarded  summit,  like  a  hawk 
On  his  unruffled  quarry,  you  look  down 
Upon  the  luckless  Arnold. 

Andre. 

Yes,  I  see. 
Your  force  withdrawn,  and  in  the  mountain  gorges 
Expecting  us,  on  this  point  I  march  down, 
Storm  it  with  fife  and  drum,  and  with  the  tune 
"  God  save  the  King ''  dumb-strike  and  take  the 
fortress. 

Arnold. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  mar  an  enterprise 
Of  such  devoted  daring,  your  bravado 
Might  almost  tempt  me  to  confront  you  there, 
And  change  that  loyal  litany  to  prayer 
For  your  own  safety. 

Andre. 

Ay,  I  understand, 
'Tis  hard  for  an  old  soldier  to  succumb 
Without  one  blow  delivered  for  his  fame. 
As  for  the  challenged  flint  to  hold  its  fire 
When  struck  with  iron  ;  and  'tis  natural — 


46  ANDRE. 


A  colonist,  and  born  American — 
That  you  should  be  in  feelings  but  half  loyal. 
Sir  Henry  thinks  it  certain  that  your  wrongs, 
Rather  than  change  of  sentiment,  have  led  you 
Back  to  the  path  of  duty  ;  but  I  think 
Your  honors  and  preferments  far  outweigh 
Your  causes  of  complaint. 

Arnold. 

It  cannot  be 
That  you  have  heard  them. 

Andre. 

Some  of  them  I  have, 
And  those  not  slight ;  but  you  have  seemed  to  rise 
Higher  from  every  fall — 

Arnold. 

To  make  my  next 
The  speedier,  deeper,  and  more  infamous. 
I  call  to  mind,  when  in  the  wilderness 
Through  which  we  forced  our  way  to  Canada, 
The  thoughts  of  Allen's  insolence — my  shame, 
And  the  indifference  with  which  Massachusetts 
Saw  insult  heaped  on  me,  and  her  commission. 
Still  rankling  with  me  ; — as  my  little  band 
Struggled  their  inch- won  way,  while  torrents  roared, 
And  winter  howled  against  us,  and  where  each 


A  N  D  K  E  .  47 


Was  for  himself  too  great  a  burden,  dragged 

The  means  of  life  and  warfare  against  streams 

Whose  fury  made  them  seem  themselves  our  foes  ; 

Then — when  I  felt  and  knew  myself  their  soul, 

Their  energy,  their  life,  so  that  it  seemed 

Should  I  but  shut  my  eyes  to  sleep,  they  all 

Would  fall  like  dead  nien  there  around  me — this—-^ 

Fool !  by  the  past  unteachable — this  I  said,  ^j- 

Envy  itself  will  honor,  this  accredit 

As  zealous  service  ;  and  although  in  vain 

We  braved  those  horrors  ;  vainly  though  we  burst 

Their  wintry  barrier,  and  unlooked  for,  fell 

Upon  our  enemies,  like  men  out  of  heaven  ; 

My  heart  still  said,  This  will  win  favor  !     Did  it  ? 

Or  did  I  dare  and  suffer  such  things  ?     No  ! 

I  dreamed,  and  woke  to  find  myself  disgraced, 

Degraded,  and  four  junior  officers 

Appointed  over  me.     And  when  for  new 

And  signal  service  I  received  my  rank. 

They  held  me  still  degraded,  not  restoring 

My  lost  seniority,  till  on  Behmus'  heights. 

Fighting  without  command,  and  seeking  death^ 

I  won  at  length  that  barren  laurel  too. 

From  the  disdainful  hand  of  my  just  country  ; 

To  see  it  trampled  on,  with  all  my  honors. 

And  all  my  services,  trampled  in  the  dust, 

By  this  late  sentence  of  the  army  council. 


48  ANDRE 


Andre. 
But  so  adroitly  your  high-minded  chief 
Administered  their  sentence,  that  it  seemed 
More  like  a  compliment  than  reprimand. 
Why,  he  said  nothing — merely  praised  the  service. 

Arnold. 
Yes,  yes,  'twas  the  chaste  service !     My  dispraise 
Was  praise  of  the  profession.     Let  that  pass  : 
How  view  the  royalists  the  accusation  ? 

Andre. 
Why,  royally  ;  and  will  not  think  the  hand 
Which  holds  the  best  and  brightest  sword  amongst 

you, 

Soiled  with  dishonest  gold. 

Arnold. 

My  real  crime 
Was  lack  of  it — was  poverty.     My  hand 
Held  naught  but  iron,  to  the  state  not  useless, 
But  to  me  worthless.     My  opponents'  hands 
Were  stronger  armed — with  gold.     I  was  a  limb. 
They  were  the  heart  and  vitals  of  the  war, 
And  could  not  be  denied  so  slight  a  thing 
As  my  humiliation. 


ANDRE.  49 


Andre. 

What  to  me 
Seems  wonderful,  is  their  determined  effort — 

Arnold. 
But  they  are  dogs,  who  love  to  lap  the  blood 
Of  wounded  honor. 

Andre. 
Their  attempt  was  strange, 
Not  their  success  in  it.     Gold  has  the  power 
In  popular  counsels  fame  and  honor  have 
In  camps  and  courts  :  it  is  in  monarchies 
An  aid  to  tyranny  ;  in  commonwealths 
'Tis  the  sole  tyrant. 

Arnold. 

It  is,  everywhere 
Alike,  omnipotent  and  all-desired. 
All-dreaded,  honored.    Greatness  !    What  is  great- 
ness ? 
One  shall  be  subtle,  noble,  strong,  and  valiant, 
His  name  shall  never  die  upon  the  air 
For  frequent  repetition,  and  the  man 
Not  be  more  powerful  with  his  neighbor,  nay. 
May  be  the  sordid  jest  of  his  own  servants  ; 
Uncivil  cold  shall  pinch,  and  hunger  starve 


50  ANDRE. 

This  great  man  in  his  empty  house  ; — the  slaves 
Of  his  necessities,  earth's  creeping  things, 
Insult  and  terrify,  till  their  base  nature 
Infects  his  own.     But  gold  is  present  honor, 
Strength  and  advantage  : — 'tis  as  if  that  God, 
The  dream  of  all  the  world,  for  whom  they  rear 
And  cast  down  altars  ;  whom  they  seek  and  find 
But  to  declare  unfound,  and  seek  him  still 
In  earth  and  heaven  and  hell, — had  hid  himself. 
With  all  his  power  and  most  essential  splendor. 
In  this  bright  ore  ;  that  hence  compels  from  all 
Involuntary  adoration. 

Mrs.  Arnold  enters  unperceived. 

Andre. 

Mighty, 
And  even  magical  its  power — divine 
You  say  : — Indeed  it  is  a  potent  idol. 
Of  wider  worship  than  true  Deity  ; 
An  irreligious  god,  the  superstition 
Of  atheists  and  scoffers.     Yet  could  I 
AflSrm  of  honor  things  more  wonderful  ; 
The  reverence  that  even  in  shameful  death 
Attends  it,  when  like  an  apparent  angel 
It  strengthens  him  to  brave  and  graceful  patience, 
Who  meets  a  patriot's  or  a  martyr's  fate  ; 
And,  more  than  one  pale  scene's  unbought  applause, 


ANDRE.  51 


The  unwasted  wealth  of  love  it  treasures  up 
For  unborn  time,  and  glory  born  anew 
With  every  human  birth,  surviving  change 
In  man  or  nature  ;  to  humanity, 
Forever  forth,  a  feeling,  and  a  thought. 
Still,  on  the  soul,  returning  like  the  sun. 
Still  re-awakening  on  the  ear,  like  song, — 
A  ray  of  brightness  in  the  light  of  day, 
A  breathing  of  the  universal  air. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Is  this  the  honor  that  you  speak  of,  this 
That  you  now  act  ? 

[Andre  hows  to  Mrs.  Arnold  in  an  embarrassed 
manner^  and  then  turns  to  Arnold  as  if  for 
explanation. 

Enter  Smith. 

Arnold  {to  Smith). 

Is  this  your  caution.  Sir  ? 

Smith. 
I  think  you  will  perceive  that  Mistress  Arnold 
Was  not  to  be  subjected  to  restraint 
By  me,  and  in  this  house. 

Arnold. 

This  way  a  moment  : 
They  are  old  friends,  indeed  a  kind  of  cousins. 


52  ANDRE. 

Hark  !     I  must  see  what  means  this  noise  of  firing 
That  comes  up  from  the  river. — Will  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt  Arnold  and  Smith. 


SCENE  IV. 

Andre  approaches  Mrs.  Arnold  respectfully. —  She  draws 
hack  sorrowfully  and  somewhat  sternly, 

Andre. 
Dear  Madam,  by  whatever  chance  it  happens 
That  you  are  here,  your  coming  is  to  me 
Most  fortunate. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

And  yours  to  me  as  sad, 
Fateful,  and  inauspicious,  as  the  visit 
Of  the  executioner  to  one  more  happy 
Than  I  am  at  this  moment. 

Andre. 

Pardon  me, 
I  am  at  loss — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

I  know  it  all.     Oh,  Andre  \ 
To  you  of  all  men  living,  as  a  sister 
Turns  to  a  brother,  with  undoubting  heart, 


ANDRE.  53 


I  would  have  turned  in  trouble  ;  from  you  now 
rd  turn  to  my  worst  enemy,  if  worse 
I  have.     God  knows  I  little  thought  in  you 
To  find  my  husband's  tempter — my  destroyer. 

Andre. 
Destroyer  ?     Madam,  this  is  a  strange  charge — 
If  I  have  understood  it :  if  you  mean 
That  as  an  instrument  I  have  been  used 
To  advance  yourhusband's  fortune,  give  him  wealth, 
And  more  than  recompense  whatever  loss — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Spread  not  the  lying  lure  before  my  eyes. 
What  compensation  ?     Well  you  know,  your  gain 
Will  be  his  infamy  :  there  is  no  just. 
No  equal  bargain  made.     You  buy  his  fame. 
His  conscience,  honor,  character,  his  soul. 
And  give  him  trash  !     It  is  a  murderer's  banquet 
At  which  you  sit  with  him,  already  drunk 
With  maddening  passion  ;  and  before  his  eyes, 
As  blind  as  is  your  conscience,  drug  the  bowl. 
And  give  him  poison. 

Andre. 

Would  that  all  my  life 
Might  be  by  Heaven  held  innocent,  or  evil, 
4 


54  ANDRE. 


As  I  am  clear  of  any  evil  thought 
Or  practice  in  this  thing  !     If  what  he  does, 
He  does  from  a  pure  motive,  it  is  noble, 
If  not,  it  rests  with  him. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

He  does  not  care, 
And  you  will  not :  but  I  am  ominous 
Of  some  approaching  evil,  which  you  see  not, 
Some  great  disaster  ;  not  to  him  alone — 
Which  his  success  would  be — but  to  yourself 
And  the  whole  enterprise.     Mysterious  grief, 
Felt  for  the  living  as  if  long  since  dead. 
Weighs  on  my  heart ;  and  I  conceive  misfortunes 
Less  as  forebodings,  than  as  memories. 
Say  I  am  sick  or  crazed — and  I  am  both, 
'Tis  the  despair  that  fills  me,  the  deep  night. 
Which  shows  my  spirit  stars  of  destiny 
Hid  from  your  eyes,  and  which  I  cannot  read. 

Andre. 
I  do  not  mock  at  such  presentiments  ; 
Soldiers  too  often  see  them  verified. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
But  you  would  laugh  at  dreams  ?     0  !  we  are  wise^^ 
Or  wise  can  seem,  till  unconceived  events 
Make  wisdom  needed ;  then  it  fails  us  ;  awe 


ANDRE.  55 


And  mystery  come  dream-like  on  the  soul, 

We  know  not  whence^  and,  in  despite  of  reason, 

Make  us  familiar  with  om^  earlier  thoughts. 

The  world  we  left  with  childhood,  and  with  all 

Our  trembling  wonder,  and  too  credulous  fear, 

For  ever  cast  behind  us  as  illusion. 

Rises  around,  and  mingles  with  the  present. 

Andre. 
Sleep  is  death's  image  ;  but  life's  shadow — dreams  ; 
And  being  shadow,  are,  like  shadows,  true 
To  their  substantial  causes,  or  distorted, 
Clear,  or  obscure,  as  falls  the  Eeason's  light 
Upon  the  dark  realities  that  cast  them. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
The   ship    that  brought    you  here  is  called    the 
Vulture  ? 

•  Andre. 
It  is. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
I  stood  upon  the  shore  and  saw  it. 
At  once  as  ship  and  bird  ;  and  it  flew  on 
Among  w41d  rocks  and  hissing  whirlpools,  guided 
By  you  and  Arnold,  till  exult ingly 
You  saw  the  open  haven  ;  when  an  eagle 


56  ANDRE. 


Kushed^   cloud-like,  "^from   her  watchful  cliff,  and 

hurled 
A  storm  from  her  broad  wings  against  the  ship  ; 
And  to  the  rocks,  crouched  like  huge  beasts  of  prey 
Beneath  the  treacherous  tide,  cast  it,  to  tear 
And  shatter  into  fragments.     Him  I  saw 
Swept  outward,  clinging  to  the  wreck  ; — for  whom 
That  mighty  phantom  wheeling,  with  wild  screams, 
Gazed  o'er  the  sea  with  eye  of  fire  ;  but  you 
The  waves  washed  up,  a  pale  corpse  at  my  feet. 

Andre. 
A  strange  wild  dream  ;  and  yet  most  natural, 
And  truthful  to  its  cause  :  its  threatening  forms 
Incongruous,  wild,  improbable,  and  yet 
The  distinct  shapings  of  your  fear  preserved. 
You  dread  your  husband's  ruin  and  dishonor. 
But  as  in  my  case  these  seem  not  to  threaten, 
Your  dark  forebodings  take  the  shape  of  death. 

Enter  Arnold. 

Arnold. 
Madam,  I  am  not  certain,  but  suspect 
That  to  your  interest  in  me  we  owe 
This  unexpected  visit.     Hitherto 
You  shared  my  confidence,  if  not  my  counsel. 


ANDRE.  57 


But  whether  Major  Andre  would  admit 
A  third  into  his  counsel,  may  be  doubtful. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Arnold. 

The  devil  is  surely  privy  to  our  plot  ; 
Beyond  all  forecast,  our  fierce  patriots  here, 
Have  brought  a  gun  to  bear,  and  forced  the  ship 
From  her  position. 

Andre. 
Ha  !  the  ship — the  Vulture  ? 
Speak  out, — she  has  gone  down  the  river. 

Arnold. 

No! 
But  might  as  well  have  gone  ;  our  boatmen  swear 
That  they'll  not  board   her  where  she   lies,  and 

threats 
And  promises  are  vain.     The  stubborn  brutes 
Kefuse  to  touch  an  oar. 

Andre. 

What's  to  be  done  ? 

Arnold. 
Nothing  with  them.     You  must  return  by  land, 
And  take  my  passport. 


58  ANDRE. 


Andre. 
Land  !     But  such  a  course 
Was  not  contemplated.     I  can,  of  right, 
Demand  to  be  returned  on  board  the  Vulture. 

Arnold. 
With  all  the  right  on  earth  you  can  demand  it ; 
But  I  shall  do  no  wrong  not  to  perform 
A  thing  I  cannot.     You  must  go  by  land. 

[Exit 
Andre. 
My  mind  misgives  me.     Many  unforeseen 
And  cross  events  have  set  against  me  ;  first, 
My  visit  to  the  shore,  then  my  detention. 
Now  my  return  by  land,  and  who  can  say 
What  things  as  unexpected  yet  may  happen. 

[Exit 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I. 

Crojnpond,  a  small  military  post. — An  irm  in  the  distance, 
A  horse  standing,  saddled,  before  it. 

Enter  Smith  and  Andre,  the  latter  wearing  a  mil- 
itary cloak  over  a  citizen's  dress. — Time,  early 
morning. 

Smith. 
Farewell ;  be  satisfied  that  you  will  meet 
No  obstacles.     Here,  at  the  post,  they  say, 
The  British  scouts  have  been  above  the  lines  ; 
You  may  fall  in  w^ith  them. 

Andre. 

Grood  day,  and  thanks 
For  my  safe  guidance. 

[Exit  Smith, 

What  a  glorious  sight ! 
Now  on  the  dreamy  world  of  sleep  and  shadow, 


60  ANDRE. 


ComeSj  god -like,  the  great  summoner  of  life  ; 
And  scatters  beamy  fire  upon  the  clouds, 
Which  rise  like  incense  at  its  touch,  and  dim 
His  day-creating  orb  with  his  own  splendor : 
For  ever  thus,  wafting  the  dawn  before  him, 
And  weaving  light  and  darkness,  thus  for  ever 
Shimmering  along  the  hills,  as  he  surmounts 
Their  wood- spired,  wavy  tops,  he  climbs  the  earth ; 
And  never  finds  its  summit : — ever  rising 
Through  an  eternal  morning.     Type  of  glory  ! 
Bright  and  untired  aspirant,  hail !  at  once 
Thou  risest  on  my  eyes  and  in  my  soul ! 
I,  too,  am  of  the  morning,  full  of  joy  ; 
My  care-worn  spirits  now  are  active,  subtle. 
Dewy  with  feeling,  bright  with  kindling  thought, 
Fresh,  lightsome, — I  am  part  of  what  I  see. 
How  many  days  now  have  I  mined  and  toiled 
In  the  dark  world  of  human  thought  and  passion. 
And  the  great  world  of  Nature,  hills,  and  sky. 
And  yonder  sun,  have  for  that  space  looked  down 
Upon  a  dead  man,  a  mere  idiot. 
Without  sight,  feeling,  sympathy  or  wonder. 
Blind,  tasteless,  and  insensible  to  beauty. — 
Hush  Andre  !     If  in  this  plain  garb,  and  here, 
Among  the  hills,  alone  with  thy  coy  muse, 
In  the  young  making  of  the  day,  the  devil 


ANDRE.  61 


Should  tempt  thee  to  turn  poet, — friend^  beware  ! 
Thou  art  a  soldier  and  diplomatist. 

[He  retires  in  the  direction  of  the  inn. 


SCENE    II. 

A  woody  2>lcice  hy  the  roadside  near  Tarrytown, 

Enter  Paulding,  Williams  and  Van  Wert. 

Van  Wert. 
Well,  neighbors,  we  had  best  go  home  and  sleep  : 
The  birds  we  look  for  do  not  fly  by  daylight. 

Paulding. 
There  ! — hark  ! — hide  in  the  bushes,  and  lie  close. 

\11iey  hide.     Paulding  chooses  a  place  luhich 
gives  him  a  vieio  of  the  road. 

Williams. 
What  is  it  ? 

Paulding. 
^Tis  a  horseman  ;  but  he  rides 
Too  carelessly  along  for  one  to  think 
His  business  any  thing  but  safe  and  lawful. 
We'll  show  ourselves,  and  question  him. 

[Exeunt^  walking  rapidly  up  the  road. 
4* 


62  ANDRE, 

(Paulding  speaks  without.) 

This  way  ; 
Look  to  the  horse,  there,  Williams.     Now,  this 

way.  Sir, 
A  little  from  the  roadside. 

Re-enter  Paulding  and  Van  Wert,  conducting 
Andre. 

Andre. 

Now,  good  Sirs, 
Please  tell  me — where  do  you  belong  ? 

Paulding. 
Below. 

Andre. 
Airs  well.     I  am  a  British  officer. 

[They  seize  him. 

Andre. 
Good  God  !  I  must  do  any  thing  to  get  on — 
Do  not  delay  me.    I  am  glad  to  find 
That  you  belong  to  us  ;  ah — I  forgot — 

[He  presents  his  passport. 

Van  Wert. 
Paulding,  you  are  a  scholar. 


ANDRE.  63 

Paulding  {taking  the  passport,  reads  ;) 

"  Permit  Mr.  John  Anderson  to  pass  the  guards 
to  the  White  Plains,  or  helow,  if  he  chooses,  he 
being  on  public  business  by  my  direction. 

Benedict  Arnold/' 

Ah  !  I  see, 


'Twas  a  mistake — you  thought  us  Tories. 

Andre. 

Yes. 

Do  not  delay  me  in  the  public  business. 

Paulding. 
What  will  you  give  to  be  released  at  once  ? 

Andre. 
My  purse  and  this. 

[He  offers  his  ivatch  and  purse. 

Paulding. 
A  handsome  toy,  no  doubt 
Good  twenty  guineas — but  the  purse  is  light. 
It  is  the  same,  perhaps,  you  brought  along 
On  purpose  for  us  ;  it  is  not  enough. 


64  ANDRE. 


Andre. 
Then  say  what  you  demand,  and  name  the  place 
Where  you  would  have  it  brought,  and  by  my  honor 
As — as — a  man,  you  shall  receive  it  there. 

Paulding. 
You  are   what  first  you  said.     You  heard   him, 
WiUiams  ? 

Williams. 
We're  poor,  what  say  you  ?     He  might  keep  his 
word. 

Paulding. 
Yet  not  so  poor  but  that  we  love  our  country. 

{To  Andre.) 

We  are  poor  men,  all  three,  whom  this  long  war 
Makes  poorer,  and  still  poorer  ;  you  can  see — 
These  are  not  rich  men's  clothes  ;  but  Sir,  your  king 
Has  not  red  gold  enough  to  buy  us  better. 

[Exeunt^  with  Andre. 


ANDRE.  65 


SCENE    III. 

JVorthcastle,  a  militm*y  post. — A  room  in  the  Commander'' s 
head-quarters. 

Enter  at  opposite  sides  Jameson  and  Tallmadge. 

Jameson. 
Ha  !  Major  Tallmadge  !     You  are  well  returned, 
I  have  on  hand  a  most  vexatious  business. 

Tallmadge. 
Thanks,  Colonel,  for  your  confidence.   What  is  it  ? 

Jameson. 
A  mystery  ;  our  scouts  have  just  brought  in 
A  man  who  seems  to  be  a  British  spy. 

Tallmadge. 
Ah  !  what's  the  proof  ? 

Jameson. 

He  called  himself  at  first 
A  British  officer  ;  supposing  them 
A  party  from  below,  and  then  retracted  ; 


66  ANDRE. 


But  what  is  most  mysterious,  we  found 
Papers  in  Arnold's  hand  upon  his  person  ; 
And  still  more  curious,  they  were  views  and  plans 
Of  West  Point  Station,  with  exact  details 
Of  all  our  means  and  forces. 


Tallmadge. 


Where  is  he  ? 


Strange  enough  ! 


Jameson. 
I  have  sent  him  on  to  Arnold. 

Tallmadge. 
To  Arnold  !    What  could  prompt  you  to  this  step  ? 

Jameson. 
I  thought  it  a  contrivance  of  the  British 
To  blast  his  fame,  and  shake  the  confidence 
Reposed  in  our  best  soldier. 

Tallmadge. 

Confidence  ? 
Judas  Iscariot  !      Yes,  I  see  it  all. 
Is  it  too  late  to  bring  the  prisoner  back  ? 

Jameson. 
He  has  this  moment  gone — if  yet  set  out, 
And  it  might  still  be  done,  in  case  you  know 


ANDRE.  67 


Aught  of  the  mystery — if  you  can  give 
Good  reasons — 

Tallmadge. 

I  know  nothing,  but  suspect — 
I  cannot  tell  you  what.     I  have  not  time 
To  shape  my  thoughts,  and  give  you  all  my  reasons. 
You  know  me,  Jameson  ;  will  you,  on  my  word 
That  I  have  reasons  for  it,  call  him  back  ? 

Jameson. 
Yes,  go  yourself. 

[Exit  Tallmadge. 

What  can  he  mean  ?     The  papers 
I  have  despatched  to  Washington  himself. 
And  what  harm  could  it  do,  in  any  case. 
To  send  the  prisoner  where,  in  fact,  my  duty 
Kequires  me  to  report  him  ?     Now  perhaps 
Arnold  will  take  offence  ;  'tis  most  vexatious  ! 
There's  some  accursed  mystery  at  the  bottom. 

Re-enter  Tallmadge,  ivith  Andre  guarded, 

Andre. 
Now  pray  Sir,  why  am  I  recalled  ? 

Jameson. 

I  think 
This  officer  has  reasons  for  it. 


68  ANDRE. 


Andre. 

You,  Sir  ? 
What  might  they  be  ? 

Tallmadge. 

Your  name  is  Anderson  ; 
Are  you  a  soldier,  or  a  citizen  ? 

Andre. 
I  answer  to  no  questions.     I  demand 
That  either  you  permit  me  to  proceed, 
According  to  the  tenor  of  my  passport, 
Or  take  me  to  head-quarters. 

[  While  speaking  he  loalks  up  aiid  down  impatiently. 

Tallmadge  {apart  to  Jameson). 
Mark  him, — look  ! — 
His  step,  his  bearing — he  was  bred  to  arms. 

Jameson. 
Pardon  me,  Sir,  the  apparent  fickleness. 
But  I  have  changed  my  mind.     You  will  remain 
Till  I  report  you,  and  receive  instructions. 

Andre. 
In  common  justice,  then,  you'll  give  me  leave 
To  write  to  General  Arnold  to  clear  up 
The  mystery,  and  free  me  from  confinement. 


ANDRE.  69 


Jameson. 
Yes,  you  may  do  this. 

Tallmadge. 

But  he  should  not  do  it. 

Jameson. 
The  devil  is  in  you,  Tallmadge  : — 'tis  but  fair 
That  he  should  have  the  privilege  he  asks, 
And  clear  himself  if  possible, — and  soon  ; 
For  such  would  be  the  wish  of  any  man. 

[Exeunt  Jameson  and  Tallmadge,  and  Andre 
and  his  guard,  severally. 


SCENE  rv. 

A  room  in  Robinson's  house, — Mrs.  Arnold  discovered 
sitting  with  her  face  concealed^  and  marks  of  disorder 
in  her  appearance. 

Enter  Arnold. 

Arnold. 
Might  I  disturb  your  dream,  in  which,  no  doubt. 
My  image  plays  its  usual  pleasing  part, 
I  would  impart  some  tidings. 

Mrs.  Arnold  (rising). 

News  of  Andre  ? 


70  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 

No.     Washington  will  pass  this  place  to-day. 
And  visit  us  ;  each  moment  I  expect  him — 


Heard  you  ? 


Mrs.  Arnold. 
How  can  w^e  look  him  in  the  face  ? 


Arnold. 
Why,  for  yourself,  'twere  well  you  did  not  look 
With  that  strange  countenance  you  turn  on  me, 
Or  he'll  not  know  you.     I  shall  look  at  him 
As  one  who  may,  hereafter,  look  and  say. 
You,  Sir,  of  all  engaged  in  this  rebellion, 
I  found,  when  of  your  faction,  the  most  just. 
The  only  just,  sincere,  and  generous  man  ; 
And  to  relieve  you  of  the  penalties 
Laid  on  your  head  as  leader  in  the  war. 
My  claims  on  royalty  are  freely  yours. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
What  fatal  veil  wove  by  your  evil  spirit. 
What  garland  blinding  the  vowed  victim's  eyes. 
What  scaffold  bandage  rather,  from  your  sight 
Hides  the  true  nature  of  the  thing  you  do  ? 
'Tis  not  return  to  allegiance,  but  the  mode 


ANDRE.  71 


Of  your  return,  the  bargain,  and  the  sale, 
The  cheapened  perfidy,  the  double  acting — 
All  that  a  man  of  honor  breaking  off* 
As  you  do,  from  his  party,  would  avoid — 
These  are  the  things  that  make  it  infamous. 
I  tell  you,  should,  it  prove,  in  the  event. 
As  you  predict  ;  the  humbled  Washington 
Would  rather  touch  the  hangman's  hand   than 

yours. 
And  sooner  lay  his  head  upon  the  block 
Than  it  should  nod  to  you,  or  bend  for  favor. 

Arnold. 
You  were  my  wife  ;  and  I  would  not  forget  it ; 
A  woman,  which  I  will  not — but,  by  God  ! 
If  my  accusing  angel  should  speak  thus, 
I  would — would — 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

— A  blasphemer,  too  ! 

Arnold. 

A  fiend, 
A  devil  from  hell  ! — if  you  will  have  it  so. 
How  pious  always  is  an  angry  woman  ! 
If  you  believe  in  God  and  devils,  tell  me. 
Do  you  remember  whom  you  swore  to  honor  ? 
Whose  fortunes  to  make  yours  ? 


72  ANDRE. 


Mrs.  Arnold. 

What  noise  is  that  ? 
Would  I  were  dead  ! 

Arnold. 

A  thing  none  ever  wished, 
And   lived.      What's  this — what   ails   her  now.? 

Wife!  Wife! 
Her  eyes  are  fixed  and  wide — if  'twere  a  swoon 
She  would  sink  down.    Our  guests  are  at  the  door. 
Here,  lean  upon  me  ; — do  you  hear  me  ?     Wife  ! 
The  General  and  his  suite  are  here  ;  be  calm. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Yes,  they  are  here.    The  honest  and  brave  men 
Will  enter  their  betrayer's  house,  and  meet 
A  friendly  welcoming — with  swelling  hearts 
Will  greet  their  ancient  comrade,  and  with  smiles 
Grasp  the  bribed  hand  that  holds  their  price,  in 
theirs. 

[Exeunt, 


ANDRE.  73 


SCENE    V. 

An  apartment  in  Rohinsonh  house,  a  repast  set  out. — Enter 
Mrs.  Arnold,  several  Officers  of  rank,  and  Arnold. 

Arnold. 
The  absence  of  the  General  in  Chief 
Deprives  us  of  much  honor  ;  but  'tis  like  him. 
Ever  regardful  of  the  public  service^ 
Even  to  neglect  of  his  necessities. 
I  think  you  said  he  had  gone  down  the  river 
To  examine  the  redoubts. 

An  Officer. 

He  has  ;  but  begged 
That  no  delay  or  trouble  might  result 
From  his  remissness. 

Arnold. 

G-entlemen  sit  down  ; 
You  find,  I  fear,  an  ill-prepared  repast. 

[^As  tliey  sit  down,  enter  Franks.    He  presents  a 
letter  to  Arnold. 


74  ANDRE. 


Franks. 
I  take  the  freedom  to  present  this,  brought 
By  a  special  messenger,  and  marked,  I  see, 
^^  Important,  and  ivith  haste!' 

Arnold  {carelessly). 

From  Northcastle. 

[  While  he  reads,  Mrs.  Arnold  watches  his  coun- 
tenance. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
What  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  ? 

Arnold  {aside  to  Mrs,  Arnold), 
Nothing — silence  ! 

{To  Franks), 

Where  is  the  messenger  ?     No  matter  ; — pray 
Be  seated,  gentlemen — let  what  I  do 
Make  no  confusion — business  of  importance 
Kequires  my  absence, 

[He  leads  Mrs.  Arnold  apart. 

Leave  that  staring  look  ; 
Be  calm.     It  is,  as  you  suspect,  from  Andre, 
And  half  an  hour  of  time  is  worth  my  life. 


ANDRE.  75 


Eyes  are  upon  us  ;  do  not  let  them  see 
Aught  strange  in  your  behavior.     For  our  child's, 
If  not  my  sake — forgive — forgive  !     Farewell  1 
It  may  be  we  shall  never  meet  again. 

[Exit 
Mrs.  Arnold. 
Stay  !  I  will  go — will  follow  you.     Where  is  he  ? 

\^She  turns  to  the  company. 

0  Pity  !  he,  and  Heaven  abandon  me. 

An  Officer. 
Quick  !  quick  !    Look  to  the  lady  there,  she  swoons.  * 
[Franks  supports  and  leads  her  off. 

Why  this  is  strange  !  or,  are  we  dreaming  ? — here, 
This  moment,  stood  our  host  and  hostess,  well. 
And  in  the  act  of  hospitality  ; — 
And  now, — they  both  are  gone  !     Tis  like  a  story 
Of  sprited  travellers.     We  shall  next  see  harpies 
Light  on  the  table,  and  snatch  off  the  food. 

2d  Officer. 

1  do  not  know — that  which  is  past,  at  least. 
Was  not  a  fiction.     From  the  first,  she  looked 
Disturbed  and  strange — and  did  you  see  how  pale  ? 


76       "^  ANDRE. 


3d  Officer. 
The  table  still  is  here  ;  but  though  I  feel 
A  fasting  hunger,  Fve  no  mind  to  eat. 

1st  Officer. 
Nor  I — let  us  go  meet  the  General. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE   YI. 

The  same. 

Enter  Franks  and  Varick. 

Franks. 
What  mystery  hangs  over  us,  and  casts 
Its  shadow  on  all  faces  here  ?     Our  guests 
Are  gone,  as  strangely  as  our  chief.     Their  looks, 
Like  his,  wei-e  dumb,  and  distant  as  their  voices. 
Which  scarcely  said  farewell  to  us.     What  is  it  ? 
Bad  tidings  from  the  army  ? — or  some  new 
Affront  to  Arnold  ? 

Varick. 

After  his  return. 
Too  long  for  parting,  Washington  remained 
Alone  with  Mistress  Arnold.     As  he  left 
He  met  me  at  the  door,  and  eyed  me  sternly. 


ANDRE.  77 


Then  left  in  silence,  with  a  sad,  grave  face, 
Such  as  one  asks  no  questions  of. 

Enter  Mrs.  Arnold. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

— You  here  ? 
I  thought,  save  me,  no  one  attached  to  him 
Would  stay  a  moment  in  this  place.     0,  tell  me, 
Do  they  yet  know, — the  world,  does  it  yet  know  it  ? 

Franks. 
Madam,  as  yet  we  do  not  know  what  means 
This  strange  excitement.     Where  is  General  Ar- 
nold ? 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Do  you  not  know,  then  ?     I  must  not  betray  him  ; 
For  it  were  treachery  to  breathe  the  thing 
To  a  new  listener's  ear,  though  as  a  secret. 
The  ignorance  of  those  who  not  as  yet 
Have  heard  it,  is  a  moment's  respite  for  him. 
But  'tis  upon  the  common  air  already, 
And  the  wind  waits  to  whisper  it  in  your  ears. 
You  were  his  friends,  and  you  will  call  him  Traitor, 
But  I  will  not,  though  we  are  the  betrayed  ones,  - 
I  and  my  child.     0  how  could  I  so  long 
Have  left  it !     Something  mad  within  my  breast 
5 


78  ANDRE. 


Prompts  me  to  wander  forth  with  it,  and  find 

Some  secret  cavern,  and  there  live  unseen 

By  all  the  world.     It  looks  like  him — we  called  it 

The  little  General,  for  it  had  his  smile, 

And  in  its  peevish  moments  frowned  like  him — 

And  therefore  men  will  hate  it.     0,  'tis  heir 

To  an  untold  inheritance  :  the  orphan 

Of  a  surviving  father,  and  my  child  ! 

\Exit  Mrs.  Arnold. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer. 
I  may  congratulate  you.     We  half  feared 
That  you  were  implicated  in  the  plot. 
But  Washington  has  given  me  leave  to  say, 
Arnold  himself  exculpates  you  expressly. 
In  his  communication  from  the  ship 
In  which  he  hides  his  treason. 

Franks. 

Arnold  !     Treason  ! 

Officer. 
What,  is  it  news  to  you  ?     He  has  deserted. 
And  is  this  moment  with  the  enemy. 


ANDRE.  79 


Franks. 
I  hardly  seem  to  hear  it  !     Did  you  say, 
Arnold  had  carried  all  his  wounds  and  glory 
Over  to  the  enemy,  and  given  them  back 
To  them  he  won  them  of  ? 

Officer. 

Not  given — sold  them  ; 
A  messenger  from  Jameson  brought  the  proof. 
'Tis  not  without  example  that  great  soldiers 
Should  fail  to  be  great  men.     The  broad- winged 

vulture 
Has  many  outward  aspects  of  the  eagle, 
But  he  will  stoop  to  carrion. 

[Exit 
Franks. 

He  scoffs, 
But  I  could  weep  ;  I  feel  myself  disgraced. 
Oh,  Yarick  !     When  a  great  man  dies,  the  world 
Pretends  to  mourn  ;  and  he  is  more  than  dead. 
That  which  was  great  in  him,  his  manhood,  strength, 
And  his  indomitable  soul,  and  all 
That  was  the  man,  are  dead  ;  and  but  a  man. 
One  of  the  herd,  now  trampled  by  the  herd 
Into  the  common  mire  of  men,  survives  him. 
They  will  not  rest — he  was  above  their  heads 
And  is  beneath  their  feet — they  will  not  breathe. 


80  ANDRE. 


Nor  laugh  for  joy,  till  they  have  called  him  Villain  ! 
A  hundred  times  have  called  him  Villain  !  Traitor  ! 
Now  will  the  meanness,  jealousy,  and  malice 
Thai  dogged  his  whole  career  be  justified  ; 
Now  secret  envy  from  its  slimy  coil 
Lift  its  low  head  and  hiss  ;  now  littleness 
Be  great  in  its  own  eyes  ;  and  now,  each  ass 
Will  bray  to  deafen  Heaven.     Deserter  !  Traitor  ! 
I  shall  go  mad  to  hear  it — and  from  them  ! 
Come,  curse  them  with  me,  Varick ; — drones  and 

fops. 
Mere  men  of  family  and  feathers — men, 
Whose  whole  of  life,  with  all  the  good  and  evil 
From  infancy  to  manhood  done  by  them, 
Would  not  make  up  a  single  act  of  his, 
Will  hate  and  scorn  him  for  the  only  thing 
In  which  they  could  be  like  him  if  they  would. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE   I. 

Tajypan^a  military  post. — A  room  in  the  place  0/ Andre's 
confinement. 

Enter  Franks  and  Tallmadge. 

Tallmadge. 
And  she  has  followed  him  ?     I  cannot  say 
It  was  not  right  she  should. 

Franks. 

If  'twas  a  part, 
'Twas  acted  well ; — but  she  has  gone  to  Arnold. 
What  of  the  prisoner  ?     Have  you  learned  as  yet 
More  than  his  name  and  rank  ? 

Tallmadge. 

He  is,  it  seems, 
A  man  in  high  repute  ;  with  friends  and  fortune 


82  ANDKE. 

A  growing  favorite,  and  has  been  advanced 
In  rank  and  trust  beyond  all  precedent. 

Franks. 
How  does  he  bear  the  new  and  startling  shape 
His  future  has  put  on  ?     Is  that  his  voice  ? 
He  sings  a  cheerful  air. 

Tallmadge. 

When  he  had  heard 
Of  Arnold's  safety,  such  an  instant  change 
Came  on  his  aspect,  that  'twas  then  we  seemed 
To  see  him  first  ;  and  smiling,  half  in  scorn, 
And  with  a  kind  of  haughty  eagerness 
He  told  his  name  and  rank  ;  and  still  he  seems, 
Without  the  least  surmise  of  the  black  name, 
And  blacker  fate,  we  w^ite  against  his  name, 
To  hold  himself  a  prisoner  of  war. 

Franks. 
But  he  should  know  the  worst. 

Tallmadge. 

And  shall  be  told  it  ; 
Deception  here  is  cruelty — not  mercy. 

{JEnter  Andre  at  an  inner  door  ;  Ms  dress 
that  of  a  British  officer. 


ANDR]G.  83 

Andre. 
A  captive's  welcome  to  yon,  gentlemen. 
Trust  me,  I  shall  think  better  of  your  party 
For  having  been  its  prisoner.     It  might  seem, 
But  for  these  guarded  doors,  that  I  was  here 
The  willing  guest  of  countrymen  and  frienda 

Tallmadge. 
You  meet  misfortune  with  a  cheerfulness 
That  would  disarm  severity  in  tyrants. 

Andre. 
Why  I  have  been  in  reasonable  temper, 
Not  sad,  if  not  quite  gay,  since  I  threw  off 
That  irksome  and  detestable  disguise. 
That  like  a  wet  and  aguish  cloud  hung  round  me. 
Dripping  black  melancholy. 

Franks. 

But  does  not 
The  failure  of  your  enterprise  depress  you  ? 

Andre. 
No  ;  why  should  I  of  my  misfortune  make 
My  punishment  ?     We  played  for  a  high  stake. 
And  lost  it, — that  is  all. 


84  ANDRE. 

Tallmadge. 

Bat  I  fear  not ; 
I  fear  that  is  not  all. 

Andre. 

I  cannot  say 
What  view  your  countrymen  may  take  of  it — 

Tallmadge. 
Yours  have  decided  for  them.     Hear  the  story  : 
We  had  a  man  amongst  us^  young  like  you, 
Like  you  endowed  with  every  gift  that  Nature 
And  Fortune,  in  matched  rivalry,  bestow. 
He,  like  yourself,  upon  his  party's  service. 
Was  found  disguised  among  the  enemy. 
I  do  you  no  dishonor  when  I  say, 
His  motives  were  as  pure,  his  aim  as  high. 
And  his  soul  noble  as  your  own.     That  man 
Was  put  in  fetters,  and  his  youth  made  old 
With  cruelty  ;  and  when  in  his  dark  hour 
He  would  have  set  one  last  fond  word  on  record 
For  his  dear  mother's  eye,  it  was  denied  him. 

Andre. 

The  villains ! 

Tallmadge. 
This,  my  countrymen  to  you 
Will  not  do,  even  in  revenge  ;  and  yet. 


ANDRE.  85 


One  thing  was  done  to  Hale,  which  they  will  do, — 
I  must  be  open — understand  me, — He 
Was  sentenced  as  a  spy,  and  hanged. 

\A  short  silence, 

Andre. 

You  said 
He  had  a  mother  ? 

Tallmadge. 
A  fond,  aged  mother, 

.    [A  longer  silence. 

Andre. 
Pardon  me,  Sir,  I  fear  your  last  few  words 
Eeceived  but  poor  attention.     I  suppose 
That  he  was  executed. 

Franks  (aside  to  Tallmadge), 
Let  us  leave  him. 
In  your  narration  you  have  touched  some  chord 
On  which  his  whole  life's  music  slept ;  and  now, 
For  the  first  time,  awakes  with  sounds  of  pain. 

[Exeunt  Franks  and  Tallmadge. 
(Andre  continues  standing  in  the  same  attitude.) 
5* 


86  ANDRE. 


SCENE    II. 

The  same. — A  public  room. — A  number  of  General  Offi- 
cers^ constituting  the  Board  of  Commissioners  met  to 
investigate  the  case  of  Andre. — Andre,  Tallmadge, 
and  a  guard  of  soldiers, —  General  Green  sitting  as 
President, 

Green. 
The  evidence  is  before  us  :  if  the  accused 
Have  aught  to  say,  he  has  permission  now. 

Andre. 
I  have  not  much  to  say,  and  in  that  little 
I  feel  myself  prejudged.     Your  charge  is  this  : 
That  I  was  near  your  outposts  found  disguised, 
And  on  my  person,  some  intelligence 
Of  value  to  our  army.    This  is  true. 
You  know  the  tale  too  well  to  make  it  needful 
That  I  should  show  by  what  necessity 
I  was  thus  found.     At  the  request  of  one 
High  in  command  with  you,  I  came  on  shore, 
And  /  came  undisguised. 


ANDRE.  87 


Green. 

Did  you  conceive 
Your  landing -had  the  sanction  of  a  flag  ? 

Andre. 
I  came  at  night,  and  on  a  secret  mission, 
And  yet  I  came  not  as  a  spy.     I  harbored 
No  thought  of  treachery,— had  no  design 
To  palm  myself  upon  you  for  another, 
And  steal  your  secrets.     When,  against  my  will. 
Forced  to  return  disguised,  the  information 
Found  on  my  person,  your  own  officer 
Committed  to  my  keeping.     And  if  this. 
With  no  intention,  of  myself,  to  gain. 
Or  use  my  borrowed  habit  to  acquire 
Such  information,  is  to  be  a  spy. 
Then  am  I  one — if  not,  then  am  I  not. 

Green. 
Your  noble  candor.  Sir,  concedes  the  facts 
That  will  control  our  verdict.     I  will  add. 
That  had  it  been  a  common  British  soldier. 
Who,  one  of  like  condition  in  our  army 
Had  aided  in  betrayal  of  his  trust, 
And  had  been  found  disguised,  with  written  proof 
Of  his  own  practice  and  the  other's  treason 


88  ANDRE. 


Concealed  about  him, — none  on  either  side 

Had  hesitated  to  call  liim  a  spy. 

Where  higher  rank  is  compromised,  to  aid 

In  the  betrayal  of  a  higher  trust, 

The  turpitude  is  greater  :  and  although, 

Without  intention,  doubtless,  to  subject 

Yourself  to  the  great  danger  that  now  threatens, 

You  made  yourself  the  agent,  to  become 

The  victim  of  another's  crime — our  duty 

Is  to  pronounce  you  an  undoubted  spy ; 

And  subject  to  be  dealt  with  as  the  laws 

Of  war  require  ;  and  our  clear  conscience  adds, 

May  God  be  merciful,  where  man  is  just  ! 

[The  court  rises.    Exeunt  all  but  Tallmadge, 
Andre,  and  the  guojrd. 

Andre. 
Come  hither.  Major  Tallmadge.     You  have  been 
A  kinder  keeper  to  me  than  your  warrant 
Or  my  desert  could  justify  ;  and  yet 
You  owe  me  something.     'Twas  your  interference 
That  on  my  first  detention,  at  the  crisis 
And  turning  point  of  all  my  destiny. 
Prevented  my  return  to  Arnold's  quartei's. 
And  so  procured  my  death. 

Tallmadge. 

Was  I  to  blame  ? 


ANDRE.  89 

Andre. 
You  did  as  I  should  do  by  you.     Come  near, 
Survey  me.     Do  you  see  the  marks  of  fear 
And  weakness  in  my  aspect  ?^     Has  the  blood 
Betrayed  my  cheek  ?    Do  I  grow  pale  and  tremble 
At  the  stern  face  my, destiny  puts  on? 

Tallmadge. 
You  look  as  usual  ;  and  no  doubt  confront 
Your  natural  fears  with  manly  fortitude. 

Andre. 
But  I  am  weak.     0  Grod  !  no  child  is  weaker. 

[He  approaches,  and  leans  on  Tallmadge. 

Tallmadge,  I  know  your  nature  stern,  and  there- 
fore 
Believe  it  strong,  and  one  to  lean  upon. 
Yours  is  a  true  heart,  a  true  manly  heart, 
I  feel — I  felt  it  from  the  first ;  and  now. 
Because  you  owe  me  something,  as  I  said. 
Though  I  accuse  you  not,  in  recompense. 
Your  heart  must  taste  the  bitterness  of  mine. 
I  have — this  tightness  at  the  throat  prevents — 
I'd  say — 

{He  turns  to  the  guard). 
May  these  men  go  ? 


90  ANDRE. 


Tallmadge. 

Ketire  a  moment^ 
And  stand  without  the  door. 

Andre. 

I  sought  to  say- 
That  I  have  sisters  and  a  mother.     Now, 
Even  while  I  speak,  they  wait  for  news  of  me, 
And  smile,  and  speak,  with  hopeful  fond  conjecture. 
Of  some  new  honor  lighted  on  the  head 
Of    their  hearts'  idol — whom  they've  learned  to 

think 
Is  that  of  fortune  too.     And  they  will  hear — 
0  !  were  it  of  my  death  alone,  I  might 
Be  cheerful.     Had  it  been  my  fate  to  fall 
In  arms  and  honor  on  the  open  field, 
Where  life-blood  shed,  is  a  serene  libation 
Poured  on  a  country's  altar,  in  the  sight 
Of  all  mankind,  I  had  not  felt  these  pangs, 
This  wild  disturbance,  this  keen  shuddering  chill 
At  the  fore-tasted  cup  of  death  ;  nor  they 
The  agony  that  they  will  feel  to  hear 
The  ghastly  tidings  soon  to  fall  on  ears 
That  never  more  will  hear  a  joyful  sound. 

[He  turns  from  Tallmadge,  and  stands  for 
awhihy  as  if  lost  in  thought. 


ANDRE.  91 


I  was  obscure  and  happy  ;  0,  too  happy  ! 
I  broke  the  sacred  human  ties  that  bound 
My  wildly  restless  wishes  to  a  life 
Of  peaceful  humble  joy.    And  I  have  found, 

0  yes,  I  may  say  fame — I  shall  be  famous  ! 

A  death  of  shame — a  shame  that  makes   death 

mean, 
A  death  that  makes  shame  ghastly — is  the  end 
Of  all  my  inspirations  of  success. 
My  hopes  that  blushed   to  know  themselves  for 

hopes. 
My  cautious  daring,  and  my  ardent  thought. 
Dreams  !  dreams  !    It  is  all  darkness  now  before  me, 
That  was  so  late  a  scene  lit  up  and  splendid 
With  bright  deceitful  torches,  waving  on 
To  farther  glory.     High-aspiring  Andre  ! 
One  sentence  will  tell  all,  and  be  your  record — 
Hanged  as  a  spy,  will  be  your  history  ! 

(A  pause.) 

They  came,  they  crowded  round  me,  the  illusive. 
The  treacherous  visions — they  allured  me  on. 
The  blooming  spectres  !  garlands  waved  around. 
And  music  stirred  my  pulses.     Silently 
They  pointed  to  the  future  ;  yet  methought 

1  read  a  glorious  promise  in  their  eyes. 

But  suddenly  they  change  ;  each  wears  a  shroud, 


92  ANDRE. 


And  scowls  on  me  with  looks  of  death  ;  they  crowd, 
They  press  upon  me  from  behind,  they  urge, 
They  thrust  me  on  ;  and  there,  before  me,  stands — 

0  Grod  !  I  cannot  speak  it,  cannot  name 

To  my  own  ears,  the  thing  which  threatens  me 
With  more  than  pain  of  dying  ;  and  beneath  it 

1  see  a  felon's  coffin  ;  and  beyond, 

A  lonely,  naked,  and  dishonored  grave. 

[He  covers  Ms  eyes  loith  Ms  hands,  and  stands 
motionless.  Tallmadge,  as  if  afraid  to 
disturb  /^^m,  also  remains  motionless,  and 
regards  Mm  with  a  look  of  sympathy. 


SCENE    III. 

The  sa?n€, — A  street. 

Enter  Franks  and  Varick. 

Franks. 
A  soldier,  of  the  name  of  Ohampe,  has  ventured 
To  go,  disguised,  into  New  York  ;  the  plot. 
Thus  far,  has  prospered.     Arnold  can  be  captured 
By  a  small  number  of  determined  men, 
Whom  Champe  will  meet  there. 


ANDRE.  93 


Varick. 
Now,  may  Heaven,  or  Congress, 
Send  him  an  epaulette  !     I'd  give  my  own. 
Although  it  was  through  Arnold  that  I  gained  it, 
To  see  his  frowning  face  beneath  the  gallows, 
Instead  of  smiling  Andre. 

Franks. 

Secret  friends, 
Of  both  sides,  in  the  city,  will  assist  us. 
Being  assured  that  by  this  means  alone 
They  can  save  Andre.     Thus,  we  have  discovered 
The  house  in  which  he  lodges — are  to  find 
A  boat  moored  in  the  river,  and  disguised 
As  strolling  sailors,  favored  by  the  night 
We  shall  surprise  him,  seize,  and  bind  him  fast, 
And  bear  him  off  in  triumph. 

Enter  Tallmadge. 

Varick. 

Here  comes  one 
Who  should  know  something  of  the  secret  game 
In  which  ill-fortuned  Andre's  life  is  played. 
With  little  doubt,  against  the  higher  card. 
What  news  of  Andre  ? — 


94  A  N  D  R  ^  . 

Tallmadge. 

Washington  is  steadfast. 
Commissioners  from  both  sides  are  to  meet  : 
But  that  you  know. 

Franks. 
And  with  what  hope  we  know  ; 
There's  better  even  in  my  hair-brained  plot ; 
And  if  that  fail,  why  then  the  hapless  Andr6 
May,  as  his  mood  is,  frown,  or  smile,  or  weep 
His  farewell  to  the  world.     I  did  believe. 
Nay  would  have  sworn,  that  Washington  would  save 

him. 
But  he  is  much  too  faultless  to  feel  pity ; 
Too  good  and  great  to  be  more  great  and  better. 
He  is  all  justice,  rigid,  iron  justice, 
Untempered  by  the  gold  alloy  of  mercy. 

Tallmadge. 
Why,  he  is  merciful  to  you  and  me, 
And  to  the  many  thousands  of  brave  men 
Who  venture  life  and  fortune  in  this  war. 
Before  mankind,  and  Heaven,  we  have  asserted 
Our  independence, — these  four  bloody  years 
Maintained  it  with  the  sword  ;  and  we  must  show 
The  hesitating  world  the  free  commission 


ANDRE.  95 


We  hold  from  God,  at  our  own  will  and  peril 
To  do  all  acts  that  may  pertain  to  nations. 

Franks. 
He  dies,  then,  not  because  his  death  is  just, 
Although  it  were  so,  nor  because  he  ran 
Intelligently  upon  danger.     No  ! 
We  need,  state  policy  demands — a  victim. 
To  me,  I  will  confess,  this  policy 
Seems  but  a  mean  assassin,  hired  to  stab, 
Where  justice  hesitates,  and  feels  no  strength 
To  lift  the  sword.     No,  no.     If  we  must  be 
His  executioners,  let  us  say  at  once, 
It  is  because  the  man  himself  deserves, 
Not  that  we  need,  his  death. 

Tallmadge. 

But  policy 
Did  not  condemn,  although  it  will  not  save  ; 
And  if  it  be  of  force  to  turn  the  edge 
Of  a  judicial  sentence,  as  it  is. 
In  every  case  of  pardon,  then  why  not 
Of  force  sufficient  to  prevent  a  pardon  ? 
We  do  not  plead  the  policy  of  justice. 
But  the  impolicy  of  mercy. 

Franks. 

Oh! 

If  it  has  come  to  pleading — I  am  silenced. 


96  ANDRE. 


I  have  no  skill  in  casuistry  :  compassion 

Is  not  a  function  of  the  brain,  nor  can 

The  wiser  heart  that  leans  on  its  own  instincts, 

Eefute  the  processes,  which,  of  a  thread 

Of  policy,  can  spin  a  cord  to  kill 

An  innocent,  brave  man. 

Tallmadge. 

The  heart  that  trusts 
To  its  own  instincts  merely,  often  errs. 
And  mistakes  feebleness  for  strength  of  feeling. 
I  have  no  feeling,  doubtless, — no  compassion 
To  temper  sterner  thoughts  ?     And  Washington, 
Who  from  the  very  first,  because  determined 
By  an  example  it  would  heed,  to  quell 
This  British  tampering  with  our  discontent, 
Would  never  see  him,  fearing  lest  at  sight 
Of  the  brave  stripling,  his  large  father's  heart 
Should  feel  relentings, — he,  too,  has  no  pity  ! 


[Exeunt. 


ANDRE.  97 


SCENE  IV. 

New  York. — A  room  in  Arnold's  quarters. 

Enter  Mrs.  Arnold. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
At  last  ! — and  it  has  come  to  this  :  his  hands 
Have  raised  the  gibbet,  and  prepared  the  cord. 
Inhuman  laws,  as  stern  and  blind  as  war 
That  made  them,  claim  their  victim,  and  another 
Must  be  the  sacrifice  !     There  is  one  way, 
Forgive  me  Heaven  that  I  think  of  it ! — 
I  do  not  will  it — no  !  no  !     God,  thou  knowest 
I  would  not  have  my  husband  yield  himself 
To  save  this  man  ;  but  I  cannot  but  feel 
That  I  would  have  him  capable  of  this. 
0,  it  would  wipe  out  half  the  infamy  ! 
Truth  to  humanity,  and  private  ties. 
Would  expiate  his  treason  to  the  state. 
And  military  perfidy  ;  such  stern 
Fidelity  to  one,  make  good  the  want 
Of  public  faith  ;  and  'gainst  the  citizen — 


98  ANDRE. 


In  the  severest  patriot's  heart — the  man 

Would  rise  and  plead  for  him.    But  will  they,  then, 

0  !  can  they  take  his  life,  thus  freely  offered 

To  save  another's  ?     No  !     They  will  not,  cannot. 
A  light  breaks  in  on  me — they  surely  cannot. 

Enter  Arnold,  in  the  uniform  of  a  British  officer. 

Arnold. 
Your  too  prophetic  bodings,  in  the  end. 
Have  proved  but  half  inspired.     My  new  allies 
Seem  to  conceive  that,  of  myself,  I  am 
A  full  equivalent  for  what  they  offered  : 
They  give  me  rank  quite  equal  to  my  higher. 
But  less  substantial  title,  won  from  Congress 
With  greater  effort.     Trust  me,  you  shall  find 
That  though  the  hurricane  has  torn  the  oak 
Out  of  its  rooted  place,  it  has  again. 
By  the  same  wind,  been  planted  broad  and  deep 
In  firmer  soil,  and  still  can  give  you  shelter ; 
Only  upbraid  me  not,  nor  think  to  call 
The  irrevocable  back,  by  tears  and  frenzy. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Because  you  were  my  shelter — while  the  storm 
Hung  doubtful,  writhing  on  the  hand  of  Heaven, 
Keluctant,  and  still  waiting  for  repentance, 

1  did  accuse  and  pray. — It  has  begun 


ANDRE.  99 


To  unfold  its  bosom  peril,  and  its  lightnings 
Look  in  the  face  of  Death,  and  watch  his  eye 
To  see  on  whom  it  turns  :  I  pray  no  more. 
Who  ever  prayed  to  Fate  ? 

Arnold. 

Prophetic  still ! 
And  still  a  skeptic  to  my  stars,  although 
I  stand  here  safe,  where  others  had  been  ruined. 
But  if  you  yet  fear  evil,  you  have  friends  : 
They  hate  me  in  their  hearts  ;  and  doubtless,  now, 
They  curse  me  with  their  lips  :  return  to  them ; 
You  will  be  praised  for  it.     As  I  have  dared, 
I  would  bear  all — alone. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 

And  can  you  bear, 
Do  you  bear  all  alone  ?     Is  there  not  one 
Who  suffers  more  ?     One,  on  whose  life  has  fallen 
The  sword  that  glanced  from  yours  ?     One,  too, 

whose  death 
Will  leave  the  name  of  murder  to  avenge  it  ? 
I  recollect,  when  of  my  native  city 
The  British  army  held  possession,  he, 
In  his  first  bloom  of  youth,  scarce  soldierly, 
And  yet  more  hero-like  than  veterans 
Scarred  in  the  field,  won  every  heart  to  him 


100  ANDRE. 


By  his  fair  looks  and  manly  courtesy, 
Tempered  with  fine  and  undisdainful  pride. 
It  seemed,  to  look  on  him,  that  he  might  pass, 
Like  a  young  warlike  deity,  admired, 
And  praised,  through  battle,  and  no  hand  be  found 
To  strike  him  with  disfigurement  or  death. 
And  now  they  dig  for  him  a  felon's  grave  ; 
And  he  must  die  a  death  so  much  abhorred. 
It  taints  the  hand  that  deals  it — by  a  means 
From  which  the  haggard  orphans  of  all  hope. 
Despair's  wild  victims,  who  run  eagerly 
*  On  self-destruction,  would  shrink,  shuddering,  back, 
And  choose  to  live. 

Arnold. 
Your  fears,  then,  are  for  Andre  ? 
But  still  you  start  at  shadows ;  on  my  life. 
These  threats  of  the  Americans  are  such. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Yes,  shadows,  fearful,  as  they  will  be  found 
Faithful  to  the  dark  purposes  which  shape  them.  - 

Arnold. 
Their  generals  have  sentenced  him,  'tis  true  ; 
And  just  as  plain  that  'tis  for  some  advantage 
They  hope  to  gain  by  way  of  compromise. 
Perhaps — at  once,  they  will  demand  that  I 
Shall  be  delivered  up  to  them  ! 


ANDRE.  101 


Mrs.  Arnold. 

And  how, 
If  tempted  to  make  void  a  barren  contract, 
And  save  a  favorite,  the  commissioners 
Should  listen  to  thena  ? 

Arnold. 

I  still  wear  my  sword. 
It  is  a  toy,  here,  by  my  side,  at  present. 
But  was,  and  may  be  more.     At  Danbury 
It  saved  my  life,  and  therefore  may  well  serve 
To  take  it ;  I  might  rather  say  again 
To  save  it — more  than  save  it !    Can  you  dream 
That  I  would  live  to  die  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  my  old  enemies, — and  new  ones — friends 
That  are  no  longer  friends — I  almost  die — 
By  the  great  God  in  Heaven  !  it  stops  my  heart. 
To  think  of  it ;  to  save  the  world,  I  could  not. 
'Twould  be  to  taste  damnation,  and  not  death  ! 
I  tremble,  but  it  is  not  fear.     The  thought 
Even  of  the  cord  does  not  unman  me — no  ! 
It  is  the  hands  that  hold  it  ;  'tis  their  grasp 
Upon  my  throat  that  makes  me  weak  and  faint 
With  hate  that  is  like  death. 


6 


102  A  N  D  K  E  , 


Mrs.  Arnold. 

But,  if  you  freely 
Delivered  up  yourself  for  Andre's  sake, 
0,  could  they,  would  they  dare  to  touch  your  life  ? 
I  will  go  with  you  ;  Washington  is  noble, 
I'll  fall  down  at  his  feet — 

Arnold. 

You  at  his  feet  ? 
And  I — ^it  strangles  me  to  speak  again 
The  thing  you  uttered,  and  my  loathing  soul 
Tastes  its  own  poison  :  What  !     It  looks  well — I, 
Of  him,  proud,  cold,  impassive  Washington, 
A  beggar  for  an  hour's  existence  longer  ! 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
But  the  alternative  of  this  may  be 
A  far  worse  thing. 

Arnold. 
What  worse  thing,  out  of  hell  ? 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
What  more  humiliating  can  be  feared 
Than  that  which  will  befall  us  in  the  event 
Of  Andre's  death  ?     By  that  we  shall  be  thrown 
As  life-long  pensioners  on  enemies. 


ANDRE.  103 


Whose  scorn  will  be  our  safety.     0,  be  warned  ! 
This  is  your  second  peril — this  the  rock 
On  which  your  new-embarked  adventure  drives, 
With  fatal  swiftness  ;  the  still  treacherous  pilot, 
Your  evil  spirit,  laughing  in  the  shrouds, 
And  wild-eyed  shipwreck  standing  by  the  helm. 
The  living  can  be  met,  their  life  itself, 
Subjecting  them  to  what  they  would  inflict. 
Gives  power  to  opposition.     But  the  dead 
Are  dreadful  enemies.     At  every  point 
In  your  career,  some  viewless  influence 
Eeaching  from  Andr6's  grave,  will  thrust  you  back. 
Powerless,  from  fortune.     On  the  very  step 
And  threshold  of  preferment,  will  your  feet 
Slip  in  his  blood  :  his  name  will  be  a  curse, 
Heard,  like  a  mind-born  echo,  in  all  ears 
At  sound  of  yours — and  to  your  own,  his  fate 
Be  Heaven's  mercy. 

Arnold. 

Feeling  takes  you  far  ! 
I  might  suspect,  aye,  and  I  partly  do. 
That  personal  motives  lead  you  to  prefer 
My  honor  to  my  life.     This  youth,  this  Andre, 
Has  claims  upon  your  gratitude,  perhaps, 
Which  I  have  not  established,  though  your  hus- 
band. 


104  ANDRE. 


Your  family  are  loyal,  very  loyal  ! 
And  if  they,  more  than  ever,  hate  me  now, 
As  I  suspect  they  do,  I  know  'tis  not 
Because  of  my  defection,  but  my  failure. 
They  doubtless  favored  him,  as  you,  in  heart. 
Though  not  in  your  ambition,  may  have  done. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Neither  in  my  ambition  nor  my  heart. 
Nor  in  my  views.     I  liked  him — not  his  cause. 
And  saw  you  both,  ere  I  chose  one  ;  and  now, 
Even  for  the  preference'  sake  which  then  I  showed, 
0,  save  him  ! 

Arnold. 
Were  it  in  some  other  way  ! 
0,  were  it  but  to  spring,  as  T  have  dreamed. 
When  in  my  sleep  he  seemed  to  call  for  help. 
Into  the  storm-blind  sea — what  man  would  dare 
Leap  in  before  me  ?     Were  it  in  the  field 
To  rescue  him,  and  all  my  enemies 
Stood,  armed,   around  him,  frowning  death  and 

shame  ; 
No  league  of  desperate  madmen  to  bring  off" 
Their  king  or  colors,  ever  dared  as  I 
Would  dare  for  him.     But  now,  what  can  I  do  ? 
I  have  the  power,  indeed,  nor  lack  the  daring 


ANDRE.  105 


To  do  what  you  advise  ;  but  strong  repugnance 

Masters  the  weaker  motive,  and  the  will 

Lies  bound  in  its  own  chain.     And  if  his  death 

Will  arm  the  invisible  and  restless  hands 

Of  coward  slander  'gainst  me, — let  them  strike  ! 

I  am  no  novice  in  that  kind  of  warfare, 

Not  weak,  nor  imbecile,  nor  to  be  hurt 

By  such  like  shadows  as  they  wield,  nor  wounds 

That  words  can  make  ;    though  they   should  be 

such  sounds 
As  Traitor,  Murderer,  and  like  epithets, 
Whose  hateful  meanings  men  like  basilisks  shoot 
One  at  another — their  sharp,  viewless  points 
Dipped  in  the  killing  poison  of  their  nature. 

Mrs.  Arnold  {aside). 
His  sullen  mood  is  on  ;  and  I  but  stand 
Upon  the  shore  of  his  chafed  mind,  and  see 
The  turbid  waters  dash  themselves  in  foam. 

[Exit 
Arnold. 
Yet  she  speaks  truth  ;  she  is  inspired  to  give 
A  shape  to  my  dim  fears  ;  I  see  already 
That  Andre  is  a  cloud  upon  their  favor 
To  keep  its  rays  from  me.     He  saved  my  life  ; 
That  is  his  crime  with  my  old  friends,  as  is 
My  want  of  power  to  save  him,  with  my  new. 


106  ANDRE. 


I  pity  him  :  the  warning  that  saved  me 
Has  proved  his  own  death-warrant.     But  to  throw 
The  game  into  their  hands  ;  to  give  my  throat 
To  my  own  knife  !     It  is  not  fear  deters  me^ 
No  !  I  can  say  to  my  own  hearty  not  fear. 
What  should  I  fear  ?     I  shall  not  seem  a  wolf 
With  broken  fangs^   clutched  by  the  throat  and 

strangled, 
But  as  a  lion  that  stalks  freely  in, 
And  dares  the  amphitheatre.     By  Heaven  ! 
Tve  half  a  mind  to  do  it.     I  shall  still 
Be  free,  because  self-offered  ;  and  unconquered, 
Because  I  yield  myself  without  constraint. 
Then,  let  them  seize  me,  let  them  pierce  and  tear, 
Like  Indians,  their  stake-bound  foe  ;  each  blow. 
Each  stab,  will  give  the  lie  to  their  fond  notions 
That  I  am  treacherous,  selfish  ; — and  my  blood 
Will  blot  the  record  in  their  lying  annals. 

[Exit 


ACT  V. 

S  0  E  N  E    I. 

Dohhs'  Ferry, — A  room  in  an  inn, — General  Green  and 
other  Officers,  constituting  the  American  Commis- 
sion. To  these,  enter  General  Robertson,  Colonel 
Robinson,  and  other  officers  of  his  suite ;  and,  he- 
hind  them,  Arnold,  wrapped  in  a  military  cloak  that 
conceals  his  person, 

KoBERTSON  (to  Green), 
'Tis  understood  that  all  who  land  with  me, 
Are  equally  protected  by  the  flag. 

Green. 
It  is  ;  I  only  wonder  at  the  question. 

EOBERTSON. 

Our  powers  are  ample  ;  and  I  think  that  you 
Are  not  such  willing  executioners, 
But  that  some  way  may  be  devised  to  spare 
Your  sense  of  justice  its  distasteful  office 
On  our  young  countryman. 


108  ANDRE. 


Green. 

Our  hands  are  tied 
By  our  commission  ;  yet  we  have  some  hope 
In  your  success — which  we  should  feel  as  ours. 

[Arnold  discovers  himself,  and  advances. 

Several  American  Officers  {speaking  to  each 

other  in  confusion). 
What  !     He  ?     Yes— No— So  like  him  ! 

1st  Officer. 

It  is  he. 
'Tis  the  King's  scarlet  that  has  changed  his  looks. 
Heaven  !  so  unblushingly  to  wear  it  here. 
And  flaunt  it  in  our  eyes — 

2d  Officer. 

It  blushes  for  him. 

1st  Officer. 
But  it  shall  not  protect  him — ^he's  an  outlaw. 

Green. 
To  us,  but  not  to  them.     Eespect  the  flag. 

Arnold. 
You,  General,  I  ever  have  regarded — 


ANDRE.  109 


Green  {abruptly  to  Robertson), 
If  that  man  has  a  share  in  this  commission, 
I  do  not  treat  with  liim. 

^  Arnold. 

Ha  !     When  we  stood 
On  the  same  ground,  and  when  our  swords  might 

reach, 
You  dared  not  use  me  thus. 

EoBERTSON  {to  Amold), 

Have  you  gone  mad  ? 

{To  Green,) 

We  are  empowered  to  give  you  in  exchange 
For  Major  Andre  any  officer, 
Though  of  the  highest  rank,  whom  we  retain 
A  prisoner  of  war. 

Green. 

There  is  one  man 
Amongst  you,  who  is  not  a  prisoner. 
Nor  yet  one  of  you  ;  there  he  stands,  and  him. 
Him  only,  we  are  authorized  to  accept 
As  an  equivalent  for  your  countryman. 
6'^ 


110  ANDRE. 


Robertson. 
To  this  we  cannot  listen  ;  British  honor 
Is  dearer,  in  our  eyes,  than  British  life. 

Arnold. 
And  now  hear  me.     For  all  that  Andre  did, 
I  only  am,  of  right,  responsible 
To  them  who  sent  you  hither, — as  I  am, 
In  some  degree,  to  others,  for  his  safety. 
What  they  will  do,  'tis  not  for  me  to  say 
Although  I  know  that  at  their  mercy  lie 
A  multitude  of  prisoners,  whose  lives 
Stand  fairly  forfeited  in  this  rebellion  : 
But  I  am  to  command  a  British  column  ; 
And  at  the  moment  Andr6  dies,  from  me 
Tell  Washington — he  knows  me — that  till  then 
I  still  retained  some  sense  of  ancient  ties  : 
But  thenceforth  I  am  changed.     No  foreign  wolf 
That  ever  from  his  floating  lair  leaped  down 
On  a  defenceless  shore,  but  had  more  mercy 
Than  I  will  have  on  my  own  countrymen. 
All  shall  be  held  participators  ;  all — 
To  my  own  kindred — guilty  of  the  crime. 
Cities  and  villages  shall  burn  by  daylight 
Around  their  silent  bells  ;  and  fire  shall  hiss 
Along  their  streets  against  the  stream  of  slaughter. 


ANDRE.  Ill 

They  would  have  me,  would  buy  me,  life  for  life  ! 
Go  back,  and  tell  these  cunning  batterers 
Of  their  own  bloody  verdict, — As  they  write 
The  fate  of  Andr6  upon  this  war's  record. 
And  in  the  self-same  character,  shall  all 
Its  history  be  written  :  if  in  blood. 
Then  let  them  look  to  see  no  other  color 
Where'er  my  hand  appears  ;  and,  by  my  word, 
Ked  shall  not  seem  to  stain  it  ! 

Green. 

What  you  do, 
Those  whom  you  serve  must  justify.     To  us 
The  daylight  howl  of  the  uncaverned  wolf 
Portends  no  harm  ;  'tis  night  and  treachery  only 
That  makes  him  dangerous. 

{To  Bohertson.) 

Sir,  farewell ;  'tis  clear 
That  conference  is  useless. 

[Exeunt  Green  and  the  Americans. 

KOBINSON. 

Wrong  !  all  wrong  ! 
Oar  purpose  is  to  save,  not  to  revenge  him  ; 
It  was  no  time  for  threats. 


112  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 

No,  nor  persuasion. 
I  had  a  surer  means.     *Twas  my  intention, 
My  full  determination,  when  I  came — 
Nor  is  it  now  too  late — to  act  a  part 
That  Tve  rehearsed  to  no  one.     But  to  hear 
This  man  make  the  demand  ! 

EOBERTSON. 

But  you  should  first 
Have  seen  if  'twas  his  pleasure  to  know  you, 
And  not  addressed  him  else. 

Arnold. 

And  you  too  think 
That  my  return  to  loyalty  degrades  me  ? 
This  is  the  blossoming  of  royal  favor, 
The  flower  of  that  sapless  parasite. 
That  grew  so  rank  upon  me,  while  my  roots 
Still  grasped  their  native  soil,  but  perishes 
With  my  transplanting  !     But  I  find  no  fault : 
'Tis  well — 'tis  natural — it  is  both  royal 
And  human  nature.     No — no  fault,  no  fault ! 

[Exeunt  KoBERTSON  and  the  others  :    Arnold 
continues  speaking,  as  if  to  himself. 


ANDRE.  '  113 


It  is  a  child^  whose  ignorant  impatience 
Complains  of  the  inevitable — cold. 
And  fickle  heat ;  and  he  a  weaker  child 
Who  rails  at  human  falsehood  and  injustice. 
Beasts  to  each  other  are  more  wise  :  the  tiger 
Knows^  if  not  loves/ his  kind  ;  and  does  not  start 
To  see  the  treacherous  blood-thirst  in  the  eye 
Of  his  own  image  ;  doubtless  also  serpents 
Who  share  one  bane,  are  innocent  to  each  other. 

[Exit, 


SCENE     II. 

New  York, — A  street, — Several  Persons  in  the  garh  of 
sailors  discovered  waiting  before  a  house  ;  with  them^ 
Varick  and  Franks  ;  the  latter  wearing  a  cloak^  hut 
not  otherwise  disguised, — Time,  night, 

Franks. 
I  hear  a  step  !  keep  back,  within  the  shadow. 

1st  Disguise. 
It  moves  another  way  ;  it  is  not  he. 

Yarick. 
I  see  the  break  of  morning  ;  if  not  now 
Within,  he's  safe,  and  only  we  in  danger. 


114  ANDRE. 


Franks. 
'Tis  time  we  knew  ;  let's  try  his  castle's  strength. 
Make  but  one  stroke  of  it  ;  the  less  we  fear 
The  noise  we  make,  the  less  we  make,  to  fear. 

[They  hurst  the  door, 

Varick. 
Stand  all — Franks  only,  and  myself,  will  enter. 

[Enter  the  house  Franks  and  Varick. 

2d  Disguise. 
I  would  as  lieve  they  did  so  :  I  conceive 
An  honest  man  will  sometimes  dread  to  look 
A  villain  in  the  eye,  just  as  a  villain 
Is  thought  to  shun  the  other's. 

1st  Disguise. 

It  is  so. 
Your  conscience  acts  for  his  ;  and  makes  you  feel, 
In  virtue  of  your  common  nature,  shame 
That  he  feels  not,  perhaps,  at  sight  of  you. 

Ee-enter  Franks  and  Varick. 

Varick. 
The  game  is  up  :  to-day  he  left  the  city, 
Not  to  return  to-nidit.     What  noise  is  that  ? 


ANDRE.  115 


Franks. 
Fly  !  the  Philistines  !     Each  a  different  way  ! 

Enter  a  British  Patrol. 

Several  Voices  (in  confusion). 
Which   way  ?      I   heard    them  here — this   way  ! 
where  nov/  ? 

Franks. 
Here — yonder — every  way.     I  am  the  hindmost^ 
And  so  fulfil  the  proverb  !     I  surrender. 

[Exeunt  Patrol,  with  Franks. 


SCENE  III. 

Tappan. — A  room  in  the  place  of  Andre's  confinement. — 
The  scene  shows  a  table,  on  which  lies  a  book,  a  plumed 
hat,  and  a  sword. 

Andre  (before  a  window). 
The  sun  once  more  ! — but  once  !     To  others  now 
He  rises,  but  he  sets  to  me.     V7hat  still 
Eemains  to  me  of  day,  is  like  the  pale 
Imprisoned  daylight  of  a  dream — a  lamp 
Within  a  tomb,  a  light  enclosed  in  darkness. 
There  is  a  greater  and  eternal  glory  ! 


116  ANDRE. 


I  know  there  must  be — or  this  would  not  be. 
But  still  my  eyes  turn  from  it  to  the  sun, 
The  bright,  warm  sun  !     And  even  that  is  made 
To  act  a  part  in  my  low,  wretched  doom. 
At  noon — the  time  when  sentenced  murderers  die — 
It  silently  but  certainly  will  strike 
A  night-hour — strike  my  hour  of  death ;  and  shine, 
And  still  shine  on  ;  and  earth  and  sky  will  smile 
As  brightly  as  before.     Just  there  to-morrow 
That  line  of  light  will  fall  as  it  does  now  ; 
And  I — 0  darkness  !  darkness  ! — Death  and  dark- 
ness 
Are  but  one  thing  ;  and  even  now  the  twilight 
Is  on  my  soul,  and  I  see  nothing  clear. 

Ente7'  a  Chaplain,  in  Ms  rohes. 

Chaplain. 
I  trust  that,  in  my  absence,  you  have  sought 
The  consolations  of  this  book  ;  well  named 
The  Book  of  Life  ;  for  it  is  that  alone, 
Whose   words   have  power  against   the  power  of 
Death. 

Andre. 
I  feel  what  they  express — yes,  I  would  hope 
All,  all  they  mean.     But  they  are  words,  though 
awful — 


ANDRE.  117 


^re    still   but  words  ;    of  which   the  power  and 

meaning 
Are  less  than  in  my  thoughts  ;  or  clearer  there 
Than  in  these  ill-seen  symbols. 

(A  pause.) 

Ah  !  how  many. 
With  any  one  of  whom  to  part  were  pain, 
And  now  I  part  with  all !     They  little  know  ; 
They  little  dream  of  it  !     The  sea,  that  was 
A  few  months'  barrier  to  our  meeting,  now 
Is  an  eternity  between  us  !     Yonder 
They  breathe,  they  move  ;  but  death  has  come  so 

near, 
And  stands  so  in  my  vision,  that  it  throws 
Shadows  on  all  things.     Still  they  rise  before  me  ; 
I  cannot  make  them  absent  when  I  would  : — 
The  past,  that  Td  shut  out,  blends  with  the  future   ; 
Familiar  looks  come  mingling  with  strange  faces. 
That  with  the  anticipated  spectacle 
Of  shame  and  death  flow  in,  and  stare  at  me 
With  wonder  and  with  pity.     'Tis  not  I 
But  they  that  are  to  die,  if  I  should  trust 
This  feeling  of  distressful  nothingness. 
This  emptiness  around  me,  when  I  grasp 
For  substance  in  the  forms  that  paint  themselves 
On  the  dim  air,  and  bend  half-breathing  toward  me. 


118  andr6. 

Enter  Tallmadge. 

0,  welcome  !     What  says  Washington  ?    But  tell 

me 
I  am  to  die  by  any  other  mode. 
And  you  will  give  me  life  again. 

Tallmadge. 

I  cannot. 

Andre. 
This  is  so  bitter — so  unnecessary  ! 
I  did  it  all  in  honor — had  no  thought 
Except  of  honor.    I  could  meet,  though  sentenced, 
A  soldier's  death,  with  soldier's  nerve  ;  but  this 
Is  more  than  death  ! 

Tallmadge. 
The  view  which  makes  the  thing 
Seem  necessary,  also  makes  the  mode. 
Don't  think  of  it — 'tis  nothing  :  the  aversion 
Men  feel  for  it  will  not  attach  to  you, 
But  add  to  the  compassion  felt  by  all. 

Andre. 
'Tis  your  compassion,  my  kind  friend,  that  seeks 
To  make  me  think  so.     Have  you  lately  heard 
Of  them — of  General  and  Mistress  Arnold  ? 


ANDRE.  119 


Tallmadge  {bitterly). 
He  lives^  and  prospers  ! — but  'tis  just  to  say- 
Has  made  great  efforts  in  his  way  to  save  you. 

Andre. 
And  she — think  you  she  knows  that  I  saved  him  ? 

Tallmadge. 
She  doubtless  saw  your  letter  ;  that,  to  you, 
So  fatal  message  ! 

Andre  (takes  a  miniature  from  his  bosom,  and  puts 
it  in  Tallmadge' s  hand). 

This  is  a  poor  likeness — 
There — thus — a  picture,  taken  by  myself, 
Of  her  of  whom  I  told  you — of  Honora. 
I  lost  her. — And  I  now  have  lost  her  name — 
The  name  for  which  I  better  loved  her — Honor  ! 

Tallmadge. 
Your  honor  is  not  lost  :  it  lives,  untouched. 
In  your  pure  motives — in  itself  !     'Tis  like 
This  picture,  which  is  fresh  and  bright,  although 
The  gilded  case  is  tarnished. 

Andre. 

Sadly  tarnished  ; 
When  wounded  once,  and  taken  prisoner, 
I  hid  it  in  my  mouth. 


120  ANDRE. 


[He  takes  it  bach,  and  regards  it  for  a  moment 
in  silence. 

It  is  in  pity 
To  me,  you  do  not  say  'tis  fair  !    Please  see 
It  buried  with  me. 

[Martial  music  without,  and  at  a  distance, 

Andee. 
Now^  how  soon  ? 

Tallmadge. 

An  hour. 

Andre. 
Ah  !  I  feel  wondrous  calm  :  'tis  said^  in  drowning, 
That,  at  a  certain  point,  the  distressed  life 
Gives  up  the  struggle,  and  the  full  deep  quiet 
Of  death  sets  in,  while  one  yet  lives  ;  and  thus 
It  seems  with  me. 

Tallmadge. 

Nature  is  merciful ; 
'Tis  the  unwilling  soul  that  makes  death  painful. 

Andre. 
0,  but  not  that  alone  !     It  is  the  love 
Eesisting  death — the  unwillingness  of  others. 
I  had  a  dream  last  night,  my  last,  at  least 
My  last  one  with  a  waking  interval. 


ANDRE.  121 


I  was  in  England  :  all  was  as  of  old. 
Too  fresh-imagined  to  seem  less  than  real, 
Yet  for  reality  too  fair  ;  and  I, 
Glad  to  be  rid  of  all  the  cumbrous  show 
And  wild  excitement  of  unresting  war, 
Walked  homeward  through  the  quiet  villages, 
And  praised  the  blissful  and  soft  face  of  peace, 
Unscarred  by  fire  and  sword.     Joy  was  full-blown. 
And  like  a  rose  within  me  ;   and  sweet  fancies 
Hovered  around  and  fed  upon  the  flower. 
So  I  passed  on,  until  the  blooming  precincts 
Of  home  embraced  me,  and  the  very  air 
Whispered  low  welcomings  to  the  wanderer. 
I  saw  them,  all  together,  and  unchanged, 
Sisters  and  mother,  and  the  one  I  loved.  '  • 

They  smiled,  and  all  seemed  happy,  and  I  said. 
Ere  I  could  hear  them.  Now  they  speak  of  me  ! 
I  entered  full  of  gladness.     My  fond  greeting 
They  did  not  answer,  but  gazed  strangely  on  me  : 
I  took  the  hands  of  her  who  was  my  love. 
Each  in  a  hand  of  mine  ;  she  shrank  from  me. 
And  pale,  and  shuddering,  sank  down  like  snow. 
My  sisters  turned  to  stone  :  only  my  mother 
Came  slowly  toward  me,  and  in  sach  soft  tones 
As  I  in  childhood  heard,  and  with  such  sad 
And  questioning  eyes,  she  said  to  me — My  son  ! 


122  ANDRE. 


What  ails  my  son  ?  what  have  they  done  to  thee  ? 
And  then  I  knew  it  all^  and  horror  waked  me  ! 

Tallmadge. 
You  should  not  think  of  such  things  at  this  mo- 
ment. 
It  will  unman  you.     I  and  all — forgive  us  ! 
We  could  not,  dared  not,  trust  our  hearts  in  this. 

Chaplain. 
No,  could  not ;  to  be  always  merciful, 
Is  Heaven's  best  privilege — might  not  I  say 
Its  sole  prerogative,  to  be  always  just  ? 

Tallmadge. 
The  escort  ! — Be  prepared. 

Andre  {who  has  not  attended  to  the  remarks  of 
Tallmadge  and  the  Chaplain), 

Oh,  I  have  heard  it. 
More  often  than  the  jarring  axe  and  hammer. 
Whose  sounds  have  told  me  where  I  am  to  die — 
'^What  ails  my  son .?     What  have  they  done  to 
thee .?  " 

Enter  the  Officer  in  command,  Green,  Jame- 
son, and  other  Officers,  who  approach 
Andre,  and  take  his  proffered  hand  in  si- 


ANDRE.  123 


lence.  In  the  meantime^  soldiers  enter  and 
Jill  the  hach-ground.  Andre  takes  up  his 
sword  and  hat^  as  if  prepared  to  go. 

Tallmadge  (throwing  his  arms  round  Andr^,  and 

embracing  him), 
0  mine  is  the  worsff  fortune,  in  this  way 
To  part  with  you  ! 

Andre  {returning  his  embrace). 
My  friend  ! — Ah,  it  is  when 
Life's  torch  burns  clear — though  pale,  yet  strong 

and  clear — 
Against  death's  shadow,  that  the  shadows  vanish 
Which  stood  between  our  spirits,  and  thenceforth 
There's  no  chill  in  the  touch  of  heart  to  heart. 

[To  the  Officer  in  command. 
Sir,  let  me  not  delay  you  :  shall  we  go  ? 

[As  they  go  out,  a  plaintive  air  commences  in  the 
street. 


124  ANDRE. 


SCENE    lY. 

Tappan, — A  street. — Enter   a  number   of    Women    and 
Countrymen. 

Young  Woman. 
Oh  !  and  so  young   he  is,   and  they  say  the 
handsomest  man  ! — and  if  it  were  not  that  Gen- 
eral Arnold  can't  be  taken,  as  innocent  as  the  babe 
unborn  ! 

Old  Woman. 
There'll  be  some  disappointment  or  other,  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  it.  A  pardon,  or  something 
of  that  kind  '11  come  just  at  the  nick  !  If  it  wasn't 
for  a  hangin'  or  a  buryin'  now  and  then.  Lord 
knows,  I  see  little  enough  of  life  ! 

3d  Woman. 
Well,  I   never  saw  but  one  man  hung,  and  he 
had  a  cap  drawn  over  his  face,  so  'twas  but  little 
good  it  did  me  ;  but  he  yerked,  and  yerked. 


ANDRE.  125 


Old  Woman. 
How  can  you  try  one's  nerves  so^  and  the  hangiri' 
to  go  through  with  ?     I  warrant  you,  it  makes  uie 
as  weak  as  a  cat  ! 

Enter  4th  Woman. 

4th  Woman. 
0,  the  young  Englishman  won't  be  hanged,  after 
all  !     They've  got   the  traitor,  they've   taken  Ar- 
nold.    Up  there,  now — this  moment,  they're  hang- 
ing him  in  the  place  of  Andre. 

Countryman. 
Up  there  ?    Why  the  gallows  is  yonder — there 
they  are  hanging  Arnold  in  effigy. 

They  pass  over,  and  eriter  Paulding,  Wil- 
liams, Van  Wert,  and  several  Citizens 
and  Soldiers. 

1st  Citizen. 
To  each  of  you  two  hundred  dollars — faith, 
A  very  good  reward  !     Now,  brother  Paulding, 
Show  us  the  medal,  come  ;  it  warms  my  heart 
To  see  a  poor  man's  merits  thus  rewarded. 

Paulding. 
Well,  here  it  is  ;  Fidelity  on  this  side-^ 

7 


126  ANDRE. 


1st  Soldier. 
Which  means  that  you  behaved  like  honest  men  ; 
But  on  the  other  side — what's  this  ? 

Paulding. 

'Tis  Latin ; 

And    means — eh,   "Williams  !    that   we   love   our 

country. 

Williams. 
Yes,  so  they  told  us  ;  and  'tis  curious,  Paulding, 
That  this  should  be  the  very  thing  you  said 
In  answer  to  the  offers  Andre  made  us  ; 
Which  shows  me  that  a  poor  man's  words  may  be 
Put  into  Latin,  just  as  a  poor  man 
Into  fine  clothes,  and  look  as  grand,  and  seem 
As  strange  to  old  acquaintances  as  he. 

Citizen  {of  Dutch  descent). 
We  shall  be  late  ;  I  see  them  coming  yonder. 
Poor  fellow  !  well,  a  fever  might  have  done  it. 
Some  say  that  he's  not  English  ;  make  him  English, 
Or  make  him  French — I  say  that  he  is  Dutch  : 
My  wife  has  cried  for  him  as  much  to-day. 
As  for  our  Hendrick,  after  Saratoga. 

3d  Citizen. 
And  mine  has  been  more  exercised,  I  guess. 
Than  she  will  ever  be  for  Jacob  Thomson. 


A  N  D  K  E  .  127 


2d  Soldier. 
Perhaps  when  you  are  hanged,  she  will  regret  it, 
Though  you  are  not  a  soldier ;  but  to  Andre 
The  women  are  so  pitiful,  I  think 
In  place  of  him  they'd  see  their  husbands  hanged. 

\^A  drum  is  heard. 

Eh  comrades,  hark  !  that  calls  us  to  the  ranks. 

[He  looks  at  Paulding  and  the  others, 

I  wish  these  Minute  Men,  who  have  had  all 
The  pay  and  glory,  had  this  business  too — 
This  gallows  work  :  I'd  rather,  for  myself. 
Again  be  beaten  at  the  Brandywine. 

[Exeunt  in  the  same  direction  as  the  others. 


SCENE    V. 

The  same  :  an  open  place. — A  gallows  in  the  distance — a 
company  of  soldiers  drawn  up  on  each  side,  leaving 
an  interval,  through  which  it  is  seen  from  the  front, 
— Behind  them  a  miscellaneous  crowd. — Enter  to  these 
a  body  of  soldiers,  and  arrange  themselves  with  the 
others;  then  the  Officer  in  Command  aTzcZ  Andre 
(in  the  full  dress  of  a  British  Officer)  walking 
between  Tallmadge  and  the  Chaplain,  and  accom- 
panied  by  Green,  Jameson,    and  other   Officers. 


128  ANDRE. 


— Behind  these,,  another  small  division  of  soldiers, — 
As  Andre  comes  in  sight  of  the  gallows^  he  stops  sud- 
denly/. 

Chaplain. 
Sir,  why  this  pause  ? 

Andre. 

'Twas  all  in  loyalty, 
All,  all  in  honor — and  I  die  by  that  I 

Chaplain. 
We  thought  you  reconciled. 

Andre. 

And  so  I  am  : 
It  is  not  that  ;  I  am  reconciled  to  death, 
But  0,  not  to  the  mode  ! 

Officer  in  Command. 

If  Major  Andr6 
Has  aught  to  say — 

Andre  (looking  firmly  around). 
I  would  but  say,  let  all 
Who  see  my  death,  when  they  shall  speak  of  me. 
Bear  witness  that  I  died  like  a  brave  man. 

[They  move  on  toward  the  place  of  execution. 


ANDRE.  129 


SOEKE    V  I. 

New   York. — A  room   in   Arnold's   quarters, — Arnold, 
Robertson  and  Mrs.  Arnold. 

KOBERTSON. 

I  still  feel  hope  ;  yet  their  commissioner 

Was  plain  and  frank  ;  and  Washington  is  noted 

For  his  direct  and  open  policy. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
There  is  no  hope.     Even  from  the  first,  I  felt 
As  when  one  reads  a  guilty  tale,  and  knows 
The  end  is  horror. 

Arnold. 
Fear  as  frequently 
Deceives  as  hope  ;  though  its  presentiments 
Are  like  religion  to  the  mind  of  women. 

EOBERTSON. 

Have  you  no  fear  ? 

Arnold. 
Yes  ;  but  the  more  they  threaten, 
The  less  I  fear.     While  they've  the  card  in  hand, 
It  tells  upon  the  game, — once  played,  'tis  worthless. 


130  ANDRE. 


Robertson. 
There's  reason  in  that  view. 

Enter  Robinson. 

Robinson. 

I  shall  be  pardoned 
My  abrupt  entrance,  if  this  letter's  contents 
Confirm  its  bearer's  tidings. 

Robertson. 

With  your  leave. 
[He  reads  the  letter. 
He  is  dead ! 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Is  dead. 

Arnold. 
Why  he  is  dead  then — dead  ! 
And,  once  again,  say  dead — then  let  him  rest 
In  silence,  and  be  silently  avenged. 
He  died,  himself,  but  once  ;  and  why  for  us 
Should  he  die  oftener  ?    There's  no  help  for  death. 

Mrs.  Arnold. 
Nor  for  the  living  dead.     The  end  has  come — 
We  should  be  glad.     Our  evil  destiny 
Is  consummated,  perfect  ;  and  hereafter 


ANDRE.  131 


Has  no  misfortune  for  us,  and  no  fear. 

The  past  makes  all  the  future. — Grod  in  heaven, 

I  do  not  even  ask  help  of  Thee  ! 

[/S'Ae  sinks  down,  unnoticed, 

*   Arnold. 

He  risked, 
In  every  petty  skirmish,  no  less  danger 
To  do  less  service.     Yet  'twas  damnable  ! 
Mere  butchery  and  bloody-mindedness  ; 
A  dastard  and  disguised  revenge  on  me, 
For  my  defection.     Yes,  to  sprinkle  me 
With  innocent  blood,  they  plunged  their  hands  in  it- 
The  hour  is  theirs — they  have  a  moment's  triumph  : 
But  in  achieving  it  they  have  begun — 
Where  tragedies  end — a  drama  whose  first  act 
Is  murder — but  whose  last  shall  be  as  pale 
With  retribution.     They  shall  have  no  cause. 
Like  common  murderers,  to  start  at  spectres. 
Shapes  of  substantial  evil,  real  horrors. 
Shall  be  the  conscience  of  their  homicide. 

EOBERTSON. 

That  will  not  give  him  life  again  ;  our  Andr6  ! 
The  young,  and  brave  ! 


132  ANDRE. 


Arnold. 

But,  Sir,  the  royal  cause 
Shall  be  no  loser.     It  has  lost  one  friend, 
And  gains  in  me  another,  pledged  to  vengeance. 

EOBERTSON. 

Sir,  we  can  judge  of  that.     'Tis  not  your  office, 
And  ill  becomes  one  in  your  place,  to  rate 
The  consequence  of  Andre's  death  to  us. 

Arnold. 
But  you  mistake  me  !     There  lives  not  the  man 
Who  more  desired  his  safety  than  did  I ; 
And  had  I  once  conceived  his  death  so  near, 
Or  known  it  certain,  I'd  have  shown  the  world 
That  no  man  cared  for  it  as  much  as  I. 
It  was  my  full  intention,  my  fixed  purpose, 
To  give  my  life  for  his,  or  cast  myself 
Into  the  hands,  at  least,  of  those  who  seek  it. 

KOBERTSON. 

Had  we  but  known  it,  you  should  not  have  wanted 
Our  countenance  to  the  act. 

Mrs.  Arnold  (rising). 

What  stroke  like  this 
Has  Andre  suffered  ?     This  is  worse  than  death ! 

[Exit 


ANDRE.  133 


KOBERTSO^. 

'Twere  best  you  understood  me,  General  Arnold, 
And  your  position,  which  you  might  mistake, 
If  unexplained.     Henceforth  our  intercourse 
Must  be  official,  simply  such  ; — Adieu. 

[Exit 
Arnold. 
Ha  !  am  I  Arnold  still  ?  or  have  I  changed 
My  nature  with  my  party  ?     Has  my  heart 
Grrown  white  beneath  this  scarlet  livery. 
That  I  should  hear  these  insults,  and  my  sword 
Eest  in  its  scabbard,  and  not  leap  to  meet 
His  insolent  tongue  !     My  God — it  must  be  so  ! 
For  once  my  brain  seethes,  and  my  blood  is  cold. 
He  bears  the  King's  commission,  and  is  higher 
In  rank  than  I  am,  and  has  equal  power 
To  ruin  as  insult  me,  an  unfriended 
And  helpless  man  :  but  had  the  King  himself 
Stood  in  his  place,  with  death  upon  his  lips, 
I  should  have  struck  the  dastard  who  insulted 
My  helpless  fortunes  !    Coward  !  coward  !  coward  ! 
I  have  no  courage  to  resent,  no  will,  no  power. 
They  have  me  at  their  mercy,  and  they  know  it, 
These  old,  new  enemies  !     I  am  a  man 
Without  a  home,  a  country,  or  a  friend. 


134  AND  R  IE. 


Enter  Franks. 

Franks  !  you  ?    Why  this  is  strange.    A  prisoner  ? 

Franks. 
TeSj  of  my  own  design  I  have  been  taken, 
Have  given  my  parole^  and  now  am  here  ; 
And  to  meet  you  once  more  was  my  sole  purpose. 

Arnold. 
My  old,  tried  comrade  !  my  true  friend  in  need  ! 
Never  in  all  my  life  felt  I  such  want 
Of  a  true-hearted  friend.     The  death  of  Andr6 
Has  set  the  stream  against  me,  on  whose  bosom 
I  trusted  all  my  fortunes.     They  insult 
And  slight  me  here  :  or,  if  at  times  more  gracious, 
Their  faces  are  but  painted  with  their  smiles. 
And  frowns  lie  under  them.     My  faithful  Franks  ! 

[He  approaches,  and  leans  on  Franks. 

Let  my  heart  feel  you,  thus  ;  forgive  the  weakness  : 
It  moves  me  at  this  time  beyond  my  nature. 
To  know  there's  one  man  who  still  clings  to  me. 
My  wife  is  alienated  ;  and  my  path 
Become  a  solitude,  on  which  no  being 
Sets  willing  foot.     I  needed  such  a  one, 
One  bound  by  former  ties — I  will  not  speak 


ANDKE.  135 


Of  favors  now — who  brings  unaltered  feelings 
To  my  reversed  condition — and  he  comes  ! 

Fkanks  {disengaging  himself). 
Sir — General — Your  confidence  in  me 
Is^  as  w^as  mine  in  you,  misplaced.     I  came — 
I  must  out  with  it — Greneral— I  came  not 
To  be  your  confidant. 

Aknold. 

Did  you  not  say 
You  came  to  meet  me  ?     Of  what  other  man 
Could  I  believe  this  ?  but  of  you  I  did. 

Fkanks. 
I  came  to  right  myself — but  thus  to  see  you — 
In  that  red  coat,  unmans  me  with  mere  shame. 

Arnold. 
Make  not  all  quarrels  yours  ;  but  tell  me  now. 
What  have  I  done  to  undo  all  the  past  ? 
I  mean — what  done  to  you  ? 

Franks. 

At  Saratoga 
You  struck  me  with  your  sword ;  but  'tis  not  that — 

Arnold. 
Did  I  not  make  amends,  and  you  forgive  me  ? 


136  ANDRE. 


Franks. 
Yes,  the  brave  soldier  fully,  freely,  did  I ; — 
Not  the  hired  traitor  ! 

Arnold. 
Ha! 

[He  draws  Ms  sioord,  and  advances  a  step 
towards  Franks,  then  drops  the  point  and 
seems  to  muse. 

Franks. 

It  is  not  that  ; 
I  said  it  was  not  that  ;  although  the  blow 
Now  seems  as  vile  as  once  I  held  it  light, 
Nay,  almost  honorable  !     But  it  is. 
That  you  deceived  me— made  me  the  blind  tool 
Of  your  designs,  your  dupe,  your  trumpeter  ; 
Beguiled  me,  with  the  fable  of  your  wrongs. 
To  hate  just  men,  whom  you  had  wronged,  and 

boast 
And  swagger  in  your  cause,  and  make  myself 
A  fool  or  villain  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
Nor  is  it  only  that  you  cheated  me 
Of  admiration,  service,  and  affection, 
But  you  have  robbed  me  of  my  trust  in  manhood. 
Undoubtingly  I  leaned  upon  your  honor — 


ANDRE.  137 

With  my  whole  soul.     It  broke,  and  wounded  me, 
And  I  shall  halt  even  to  my  grave,  and  find 
No  second  man  that  I  can  lean  upon. 

Arnold. 
Here,  take  my  sword,  and  strike  !  wipe  out   the 

blow. 
And  all  dishonor  ;  after  all  I  know — 
And  'tis  a  joy — that  I  meet  death  from  him, 
Of  all  who  hate  me,  my  least  enemy. 

Franks. 
General — I — I — 

Arnold. 
Take  it,  and  strike  !     Return 
To  loyalty  has  branded  me  a  traitor  ; 
A  death  I  would  have  perished  to  prevent. 
Stains  me  with  murder, — 'tis  but  right,  my  friend 
Should  be  my  judge  and  executioner  ! 

Franks  {s'peoking  under  strong  excitement). 
Give  me  the  sword. 

[Arnold,  with  a  look  of  surprise^  but  without 
hesitation^  gives  him  the  sword. 

You  stand  there  firm,  undaunted, 
There  is  no  shrinking  in  your  mien  ;  your  eye 


138  ANDRE. 

Is  powerful  and  calm  :  no  one  can  doubt 
Your  courage^  or  the  unconquerable  force 
Of  a  great  mind,  that  ever  on  itself 
Built  for  attainment  of  its  ends  ;  and  yet, 
A  life  passed  in  great  deeds,  now  shows  but  one 
Poor,  common  virtue — that  you  dare  to  die  ! 
'Twere  no  fit  vengeance  for  the  death  of  Andre, 
That  you  should  fall,  self-sentenced,  on  the  sword 
Grasped  by  a  soldier  and  a  man  of  honor  ; 
But  in  my  country's  name,  and  in  the  right 
Of  my  untainted  honor,  as  a  hireling, 
A  renegade,  and  traitor — I  degrade  you. 

[ZTe  breaks  the  sword,  and  throws  down  the 
pieces  at  the  feet  of  Arnold. 


THE    END. 


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